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3 a 

A Love Match. 

By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., 

Author of “The Gunmaker of Moscow.” 

ledger Library. 
No.' 35. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. A. TRAVER. 




Deals Direct with Consumers at Wholesale Prices 


Has Donethisfor 16 Years 

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Address, Cara 


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The Marchal & Smith Piano Company. 

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will send this Piano on ap- 
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MORE THAN 50.000 OF OUR PIANOS ARE NOW IN USE. 



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physicians as being tlie best 
in the American market. 


JAMES CHALMERS’ SON, WmiarnsviRe, N. Y. 


THE LEDHER LIBRARY. 


1. — HER DOUBLE LIFEo By Mrs. Harriet Lewis. Paper Cover, 

50 CentSo Bound Volume, $1.00. 

2. — UNKNOWN. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Paper Cover, 

50 Cents. Bound Volume, $1.00. 

3. — GUNMAKER OF MOSCOWo By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. Paper 

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LILITH 


A Sequel to “The Unloved Wife.” 


By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 


With Illustrations by O. W. Simons. 


Paper Cover, 50 Cents. Bound in Cloth, $1.00. 


In ‘‘Lilith,” Mrs. Southworth has taken up the fortunes of her 
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to the perfection of the other, but they may be read together, 
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All who read one will desire to read the other. 


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A LOVE MATCH. 






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A LOVE 


MATCH. 


A NOVEL. 


BY 

Sylvan US 


/ 

Cobb, Jr 




i 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. A. TRAVER. 




NEW YORK: 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

PUBLISHERS. 


THE LEDGER LIBRARY I ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, TWELVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO. S5, 
APRIL 15, 1891. ENTERED AT THE NEW YORK, N. Y., POST OFFICE AS SECOND CLASS MAIL MATTER. 


Copyright, 1890 and 1891, 

BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 


{.All righU reserved.) 


PRESS OP 

THE NEW YORK LEDGER, 
NEW YORKs 


IT WAS A LOVE MATCH. 


CHAPTER I. 

OUT OF THE SNOW. 

HE city of Boston has grown 
astonishingly within thirty 
years. Thirty years ago, 
Brookside Cottage was in the 
country, and the brook, whence 
the dwelling took its name, 
meandered through green 
meadows, its bosom kissed by 
drooping willows, wound and wandered on to 
feed the wheels of a stack of mills in Roxbury, 
and thence to empty its spent waters into that 
sink of the Charles River, known as the “ Back 



8 


Out of the Snow. 


Bay but the Back Bay no longer. The broad 
acres of marsh and bog, where once the tide- 
water ebbed and flowed twice in twenty- four 
hours,” and where, by the slimy sluice-ways, the 
wild sedge grew in rank luxuriance, now under- 
lie the very swellest of all the dwelling-places of 
the city. Upon the beds of the old water- 
courses now rest those magnificent avenues 
whose length and breadth and straightness make 
the ancient streets seem more contracted and 
crooked than ever ; while the places which once 
bore humanity in boats and upon rafted planks, 
now bear the palaces and churches of nabobs. 
There is an embouchure of Charles River still 
dignified by the name of Back Bay ; but it is 
not the Back Bay upon which we used to look 
down from Boston Common, thirty years ago. 

Up from this brookside of which I have 
spoken, within the town of Roxbury, swept a 
gentle acclivity, crossed by graveled walks, and 
dotted by grand old trees, and crowned by a 
stone cottage, a pretty dwelling, and prettily sit- 
uated and surrounded. It was low and wide 
spreading, its originator having a fancy that he 
would find better foundation for stone walls 


*> 



CHRISTINE ST. CLAIR 


Frontispiece 





Out of the Snow. 


9 


upon the ground than in the air. The owner 
and the occupant of this Brookside Cottage was 
Rachel St. Clair. Certain men discovered her 
name because she was forced to sign it to 
certain legal documents which had to be 
executed before she could legally hold the 
cottage ; otherwise she might have lived for 
years among them, and they would never have 
known that she was else than Madame Rachel,” 
the only name which her servants used in desig- 
nating her. 

Rachel St. Clair was a woman well advanced 
in years — three-score and ten at least — and 
though time had drawn deep lines upon her 
brow and cheek, and lightened her hair to the 
whiteness of snow, yet it was easy to tell that 
she had once been beautiful. There was a deli- 
cate outline of feature not yet obliterated, and 
the cleanly cut Grecian profile, even now, when 
in repose, was not broken by the seams of age 
that had cut into its surface. 

She had come to the Brookside some years 
ago, and bought the cottage. At first it was 
known only that she came from the South. It 
was soon discovered that Madame St. Clair’s 


lO 


Out of the Snow. 


purpose was to seek retirement and repose. She 
courted no society and sought no friendships. 
She was a lonely woman, seeming anxious only 
to shut herself out from the world, and to be left 
in the companionship of her own sorrows. At 
first, I say, people knew only that she came from 
the South ; but in time certain ponderous docu- 
ments reaching her by post, and certain words 
dropped by her black servants, signified that she 
had come from New Orleans. 

Thus Madame St. Clair was at seventy. The 
only occupants of the cottage beside herself were 
three black servants whom she had brought 
with her from her Southern home ; though, in a 
far corner of the grounds was a neat little lodge, 
where lived the gardener and his family, whom 
she had hired since Tom had become too old 
and infirm to properly care for the place. Tom 
was a faithful old negro, and though his change 
of clime had made him free in law, yet he carried 
in his heart that same fealty to his mistress 
which he had felt in those other years when he 
was her legal bondman. 

Then there was Hagar, older than her mis- 
tress : but who was skeptical as to the question 


Out of the Snow. 


I 


whether age impairs the faculties. She believed 
that the age which was passing away was des- 
tined to take the most useful knowledge with it, 
and that the rising generation could never 
replace it. 

Lora was Hagar’s daughter, and had been 
young when they first settled at the Brookside ; 
but she was now a stout, clear-eyed woman, 
verging toward the middle-age, and was, in fact, 
the main-stay of the household so far as its 
internal workings were concerned. 

Madame Rachel St. Clair was reported to be 
wealthy. In fact, it was known that her bank- 
stock was worth full half a million, to say noth- 
ing of large and valuable blocks of real estate 
which her bankers had taken in her name. She 
was too high-minded to tell a falsehood, even by 
implication, and she suffered herself to be taxed 
upon an estate larger by two hundred thousand 
dollars than would appear by the assessor’s 
books to be the estate of a man not a rifle-shot 
removed, who was known to be worth a million 
and a half. 

It was at the close of a cold and blustering 
day in early winter. The wind which during 


12 


Out of the Snow, 


the day had been an east wind of the true Boston 
type, changed, with the setting of the sun, to 
northwest, and the clinging, oozy sleet became 
snow ; at first fine and hail-like, but growing to 
broader, lighter and faster-falling flakes as the 
wind veered to the westward. The air was 
sharp and nipping, and the blast moaned in dis- 
mal minors through the arms of the great old 
elms and oaks that stood guard over the Brook- 
side. 

Old Tom brought an armful of wood into the 
sitting-room, and deposited it in a curiously 
wrought Chinese box by the fireplace, after 
which he put a fresh fore-stick upon the polished 
andirons, and then proceeded to replenish the 
main pyre. 

“ Tom, you are thinking of the old times.’ 

Madame St. Clair tried to smile as she said 
this, but the effort was a failure. 

“ I was finkin’, missus — ” 

“ Of the old times, Tom ? Be honest.” 

“Well — I was. But ’t wasn’t ob myself. I 
don’t worry about de ole times. But I was 
finkin’, missus, dat I’d feel a bressed joy if you 
was — was — ” 


Out of the Snow. 


13 


“ Young again ?” 

‘‘ Oh, no, no ; I don’t mean dat. Lord bress 
us ! dat wouldn’t be natural. But — if ye could 
only find de bressed sunshine.” 

The faithful old bondman spoke from the full 
ness of his heart, and the smile which his mis- 
tress had failed to call up before came now of its 
own accord, though it softened her face but for 
a moment, leaving the sadness deepened when it 
had gone. 

You are a good heart, Tom, and I thank you 
for your kind wish ; but there is no more sun- 
shine for me.” 

“ Don’t say so, missus. You don’t know how 
we all love ye. We’d bress de Lord ob Glory 
forebber an’ ebber. Amen! ef ye’d only find 
some ob dem ole happy times, such as — ” 

Rachel started as though she had been stung, 
and her lips parted as if with an angry word ; 
but directly the harsh lines were subdued, and 
she spoke calmly, though with authority : 

“ Tom, you are growing old and childish. I 
think the storm is dying away.” 

“ De wind’s moderated, missus, an’ de rain an’ 
sleet an’ hail’s turned to snow ; but as for de 


14 Out of the Snow. 

storm ” — Tom went to the window and drew 
open the shutters and looked out — “ Lord bress 
us ! How its snows ! De flakes are as big as 
chicken’s wings. Bress my heart ! It looks 
good, missus. Bar’s sumf’n in de big white 
snow, failin’ like de wings ob angels, dat makes 
me feel calm an’ quiet like. It seems as if de 
earf were a-puttin’ on its night-dress for to go to 
sleep. Just look an’ see how it comes down.” 

Madame arose and went to the window, and 
by the light of fire and lamp, gleaming out upon 
the trees, she could see that the air was literally 
filled with fast-falling, feathery flakes, and that 
the low-lying shrubs and borders of box and pink 
had already become mere mounds of snow. She 
was turning away from the window when a 
strange sound caught her ear and arrested her 
attention. She asked Tom if he had heard it. 

But the old man’s faculties were not so keen 
as they had once been. He had heard nothing. 

“ What wus it, missus ?” 

I thought I heard a shuffling of feet on the 
piazza.” 

“ Bress us ! Who can ’a’ come here in such a 
time ?” 


Out of the Snow. 


IS 


“ I may have been mistaken, Tom. But hark! 
Why certainly, that is the bell. Some one has 
rung the bell. Go to the door and look.” 

Tom went to the hall, and opened the front- 
door. But the snow came whirling in with such 
volume that he was forced to close it at once. 
Before he had secured it, however, a low, wailing 
sound reached his ear. He thought it was the 
whine of a dog. He reported to his mistress, 
and she bade him get. a lantern and examine. 

The old man went to the kitchen and got thv. 
lantern, and when he had lighted it, he donned 
his cap and muffler, and proceeded again to the 
hall. This time he opened the door and passed 
quickly out upon the piazza, and at the first step 
beyond the threshold, his foot struck something 
which did not belong there. He looked down, 
and beheld a gathering bank of snow at his feet. 
He lowered his lantern, and was soon able to dis- 
tinguish a large porter’s basket, nearly covered 
with a thick shawl carefully tucked in at the 
edges. From the basket shone the face of a 
young child, a mere infant. The old man lifted 
the basket. As he did so, he heard the wailing 


i6 


Out of the Snow. 


sound again. Then he carried the basket into the 
house, and bore it to the kitchen. 

“Mercy! Tom, what ye got dar?” cried old 
Hagar, as Tom deposited the basket on the floor. 

“ Dat’s for us to find out, Hagar. I ’spec’s it’s 
sumf’n alibe, do’.” 

In answer to his expressed suspicion, a wail 
issued from the basket, and the covering was 
seen to pulsate, as though with the struggling 
of life beneath. Hagar was upon her knees in 
a moment, and with quick but gentle hands, 
she raised the shawl and found what she had 
expected — a living child. Lora came and offered 
assistance, but Hagar put her away. With her 
own hands she raised the child from its bed, 
and took it tenderly in her arms ; and at that 
juncture, Madame Rachel came in from the 
sitting-room. 

“ What is it ?” she asked, noticing at first only 
the basket upon the floor. 

“ It’s what I found on the piazza,” replied 
Tom. 

“ It’s a baby,” added Hagar, sitting down by 
the table upon which burned a lamp, and throw- 


FROM THE BASKET SHONE THE FACE OF A YOUNG CHILD .— Page 15. 










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Out of the Snow. 


17 


ing open the dingy flannel robe in which the 
child was wrapped. 

“ Not a baby !” cried Lora, catching sight of 
the child’s face, with the tresses that floated down 
over its shoulders. “ It’s a little girl !” 

By this time Hagar had removed the wraps, 
and could see for herself that, instead of a help- 
less infant, as she had at first supposed, she 
held upon her knee a girl of some two or three 
years ; and it struck her, too, that the child was 
very beautiful. Beneath her caresses, the little 
one shuddered, as though with a vain attempt 
to rouse itself, and then its head sank back 
upon her arm. Hagar bent down and kissed 
the pale lips, and, in a moment more, she started 
up with an exclamation of alarm. 

“ Lord save us ! it’s ’goric !” she cried. “ Dey’s 
gib’n her ’goric to make her sleep !” 

Madame Rachel, who had thus far stood look- 
ing on in silent wonder, now came forward, and 
knelt at Hagar’s feet ; and, after a brief examina- 
tion, she was satisfied that the old servant’s con- 
jecture was correct. The child’s breath was 
plainly charged with the fumes of paregoric. 


i8 


Out of the Snow. 


which had doubtless been administered to pro- 
mote sleep. 

“ I think there is no danger,” said the mistress. 

Under her direction, Lora brought a basin of 
cold water and a napkin. By gentle bathing 
and wiping, the child was ere long brought out 
from its somnolent state. It was a girl, some- 
where from two to three years of age, with an 
oval face of most exquisite mold ; features, even 
now, of rare beauty ; eyes large, bright and of 
purest azure; while back from the brow, and 
falling to the shoulders, swept a mass of yellow 
hair — not exactly curling, but waving into 
tresses, which might be trained to any pretty 
fashion. 

‘‘What’s its name, little dear?” asked Hagar, 
caressingly. 

The child looked up, and seemed frightened. 
Hagar redoubled her tender caresses, and finally 
the little one seemed partially reconciled. 
There was music in the old servant’s voice, and 
there was a wealth of warm and devoted sym- 
pathy in her great, brown eyes ; and the child, 
with true instinct, put away its fears. Still it 
did not seem wholly satisfied to trust the black- 


Out of the Snow. 


19 


faced woman. Madame Rachel stood apart and 
looked on, while Tom and Lora drew near to 
admire. 

What’s ’e darlin’s name ?” asked Hagar, when 
the child’s trembling had ceased. 

“ Teeny,'' said the little one. 

“ Is it ‘ Teeny f ” 

The child nodded and smiled, though there 
was hesitation in its manner. 

“ ‘ Teeny,' " repeated Hagar, meditatively. 
“What sort of a name is dat? Don’t you 
know: — ” 

Tom held up his hand. 

“Don’t ye remember, Mas’r Philip Youman’s 
little gal ’at dey called ‘ Teeny ?’ ” said he. 

“ Her name war ‘ Christine,’ ” explained 
Hagar. 

“ Sartin,” admitted Tom; “and mebbe dis 
yer’s de same.” 

Hagar s countenance brightened. 

“ Say, honey, is yer name ‘ Christine?' ” 

The child’s face evinced instant and intense 
satisfaction. 

“ Yes, yes !” it cried, clapping its tiny hands ; 
“ And I want da’ma.” 


20 


Out of the Snow. 


^‘You want yer mamma?” suggested Hagar. 

“ No — I want dama'' And the poor little 
thing sobbed. 

“ It’s its grandma it wants ?” said the old nurse, 
coaxingly. 

'‘Yes, Teeny wants da’ma.” And the child 
cried on, not with the fractious, piercing cry of 
infancy, but with a mournful, heartfelt wail 
which betokened real sorrow and distress of 
mind. 

Hagar sought to comfort her, but to no avail. 
The little one tried to hush, but the sobs and 
tears burst forth in spite of her. 

“ What shall we do wid her ?” 

“ We will make her as comfortable as we can 
until to-morrow,” said madame, “ and then, if she 
is not called for — ” 

“ Oh, bress yer soul !” broke in Hagar, “ dar’s 
no danger ob her bein’ called for. If dey’d 
’tended to come back for her, dey wouldn’t’r left 
her done up so snug an’ tight.” 

“ It may be,” reflected madame, “ that the bas- 
ket can afford some clew.” 

Accordingly, the basket was examined, and 
upon the pillow which had served for a bed was 


Out of the Snow, 


21 


found a paper pinned. There was nothing else 
— only the pillow and the shawl. This paper 
Rachel took to the light, and upon it she found 
writing. The characters were blotchy, and had 
been made by an unsteady hand ; but they were 
well-formed and legible. And this was the story 
of the written paper : 

The child’s name is Christine. When she 
grows older, if you choose to tell her the story 
of this night, give her to know that there is no 
stain of shame upon her birth — not a shadow, 
even, as God lives. Sorrow and misfortune, 
that have no taint of sin, have led to this. Out 
of your abundance, and from the depths of your 
woman’s heart, give care and protection to this 
innocent being. In God’s name I beg ! As you 
do unto this, so may God do unto you.” 

There was no signature. Rachel St. Clair 
read it, and then crumpled the paper in her 
hand. 

‘‘We will keep the child until morning,” said 
she, “ and then we will send it to the overseers 
of the poor. They will care for it.” 

Hagar’s countenance fell. The little one had- 


22 


Out of the Snow, 


suffered her to draw its head upon her bosom, 
and she probably felt that a ray of the old sun- 
shine — the bright gleaming of a time, long ago — 
had come in, and would go out, with the cherub 
waif. 

“ Poor dear! See how forsaken de little t’ing 
looks. Bress its heart !” she said. 

“ It will be better with the overseers, Hagar. 
You can care for it to-night.’' 

As Madame Rachel thus spoke, she had drawn 
near to the little stranger, and was looking down 
upon it. The child heard her voice, and raised 
its head ; and the great azure eyes opened to 
their fullest extent as they beheld the white, 
worn face of the mistress. The little arms were 
stretched quickly out, and with a glad, rapturous 
cry, the childish lips gave speech : 

“ Da’ma ! dood da’ma! take Teeny 1 Teeny’ll 
be so dood !” 

With no thought but of answering the infan- 
tile whim, Rachel St. Clair stooped down 
and took the child. In a moment, the ten- 
der arms were around her neck ,• the lips 
pressed a sweet kiss upon her cheek, and then 
the fairy head, with its wealth of golden floss, 


Out of the Snow. 


23 


was pillowed upon her shoulder. Instinctively, 
the woman folded the cherub close to her bosom, 
and again the child raised its head and kissed her 
upon the cheek. 

“Oh ! do be dood to Teeny ! Teeny will love 
da’ma all the time !” 

And the woman, with no thought — with only 
the uprising of a sweet instinct — folded the child 
closer and more close in her yearning embrace. 

By and by, Hagar offered to take back the 
charge, but the child clung to the mistress — 
clung to her with its warm, soft cheek pressed 
close against the harder cheek which the tender 
lips kissed again and again. 

“ No, Hagar. Let the child remain with me. 
It is no burden in my arms.” 

Soon the little girl fell asleep upon Rachehs 
bosom, and it slept that night upon Rachel’s pil- 
low. The storm and the piling drifts were for- 
gotten, and in her dreams Rachel St. Clair was 
back again amid the scenes of distant years. She 
dreamed and she awoke, and she found the 
cherub at rest by her side. Then she slept and 
dreamed again. 


24 


A Good Samaritan. 


CHAPTER II. 

A GOOD SAMARITAN. 

With early dawn, Christine was up, chirping 
and singing, and smoothing the silver locks away 
from Rachel’s brow. The child persisted in call- 
ing her “ grandma,” and was as fond and affec- 
tionate, and as confiding and trusting as though 
its infancy had been passed in her keeping. It 
was a puzzle to Rachel St. Clair, and she could 
only account for it upon the supposition that the 
child’s mother — perhaps both parents — had died 
during its early infancy, and that it had since 
been cared for by strangers, very likely by some 
old nurse, whom it had been wont to call 
“grandma.” Rachel resorted to a variety of 
expedients or tricks to gain heart to put the little 
one from her, to inspire it with dread or repug- 
nance ; the result of which was that, after them 
all, the azure-eyed seraph crept to her bosom 
and begged for love and a kiss. Rachel kissed 
her, and the kiss was sanctified by the first pure 


A Good Samaritan, 


25 


flood of tender emotion that had welled up from 
the stricken heart for years. 

By ■ and by, Hagar came into her mistress’ 
chamber, for the purpose of assisting in washing 
and dressing the little stranger ; and she stood 
just within the door, and saw the child and the 
woman playing upon the bed ; and over her ebon 
face shimmered a glow of joy-light such as 
gleamed at one time in her past. 

“ Now go with good Hagar, and be washed 
and dressed,” said Rachel, 

“ Teeny may come back ?” 

Yes !” 

“ ’Cause Teeny loves da’ma.” 

“Lord bress de child! what can possess it?” 
cried Hagar. “ She takes to ye, missus, as do’ 
she’d know’d ye allers. Isn’t it cur’us?” 

“And yet,” explained Rachel, “it may be per- 
fectly natural. Evidently the child’s parents had 
no hand in leaving it here. I doubt if she ever 
knew a mother’s Love, or, at least, ever knew it 
to remember it.” And Rachel lifted the little 
one up and kissed her. 

“Where is your mamma? Does Teeny want 
to go to mamma ?” 


26 


A Good Samaritan, 


Gam-vs\2i !” corrected the waif, giving the 
sound of the ‘‘g ” in her eager emphasis. 

“ Then Teeny hasn’t got any mamma?” 

“ No ; only da’ma.” 

“And where is Teeny’s grandma?” 

There was a brief hesitation, and then the 
child looked up with a chirping smile and threw 
its arms around Rachel’s neck. 

“You’ll be my da’ma, won’t you?” 

Rachel returned the kiss and the caress, and 
then said to Hagar : 

“ I think it is very plainly to be seen, that 
her mother left her during helpless infancy ; 
and since that time she has probably been in 
the care of a nurse, or of some friend who has 
done the best she could — a nurse who had no 
mother’s love to give, and so the child has come 
to give its little heart to whomsoever can share 
its affection.” 

Hagar was a philosopher, and she accepted 
the proposition of her mistress as a wise and 
astute judgment ; and yet, as she bore the child 
from the chamber, she muttered to herself, as 
she looked down into the sweet face : 

“ Bar’s sumf’n more ; dar’s rr^or^ dan dat, 


A Good Samaritan. 


27 


depend upon it. If all dis yer love be a jump ob 
blind chance, den de seventh wonder ob de 
Kingdom am come, sartin sure. Bress de Lord, 
what a cherub it is 

After breakfast, John Downey, the gardener 
and groom, came and shoveled paths through 
the snow, and when this had been done, he came 
in to inform Hagar that he was going up into 
the “Square.” Was there any errand he could 
do? The old servant was upon the point of 
answering in the negative, when the silvery 
notes of a childish laugh caught her ear, and she 
remembered a matter of which she had heard 
her mistress speak. She bade John to wait while 
she went to see. She found Madame Rachel 
with the child upon her knee, and they were 
looking at pictures together. 

“ Missus, John am a-goin’ up-town, an’ he says 
do we want anyt’ing?” 

“ I know of nothing, Hagar.” 

“I t’o’t p’r’aps you’d like to send up to de 
oberseers ob de poor.” 

A quick flush suffused the worn face, and a 
fire of reproof was in the eye, as the lady 
replied : 


28 


A Good Samaritan, 


“ When I wish for the overseers, Hagar, I will 
let you know.” 

The days came and went, and Rachel St. Clair 
made no call upon the overseers. The snows of 
winter lay without, and the keen, cutting blasts 
swept through the branches of the trees, and 
around the angles of the Brookside ; but within, 
a ray of sunshine had come, which gave gladness 
and joy. The sweet prattle of the child awoke 
a new song in the house, and smiles beamed 
where sadness had erst held its sway. 

On a certain evening, while Rachel sat before 
the blazing fire of the cheerful sitting-room, with 
the child perched happily by her side, the move- 
ment of something at one of the windows 
attracted her attention, and upon looking that 
way, she distinctly saw a human face peering in 
upon her. It seemed the face of a woman, dark 
and old, and quickly disappeared. Rachel sum- 
moned Tom, and sent him out to look. He hur- 
ried out upon the snow-covered lawn, and found 
tracks leading from the window to the gate ; and 
when he reached the gate, he fancied that he 
saw a dark form flitting away in the distance. 

If Rachel borrowed trouble from this event, it 


A Good Samaritan, 


29 


was only the shadow of a fear that some one 
might come with power to claim the child from 
her, for she had come to love the innocent waif 
very much. A single circumstance, however, 
when duly considered, tended to inspire her 
with confidence. The child’s manners and 
method of speech, and its genial, buoyant spirit, 
so bright and yet so tractable, plainly evinced 
that the surroundings of its infancy had been 
pure and healthful ; or, at least, that only such 
influences had been allowed to bear upon the 
child. Such a child could never have been 
resigned by its parents ; and if its parents were 
dead, there was little fear that others would seek 
the burden. As for the woman who had peered 
in at the window, it was probably the old nurse 
who had left the basket upon the piazza a month 
before, and who had simply come to assure her- 
self that all was well with the little one. 

Though Hagar persisted in the belief that there 
was mystery in the love which her mistress felt 
for the sunny-haired child, and that there was also 
mystery in the confiding love which the child had 
first evinced, yet others saw no mystery in it at 
all. In little Christine they saw a heart made 


30 


A Good Samaritan.. 


for love and devotion, and a spirit trustful and 
affectionate, while in Rachel St. Clair they recog- 
nized the true woman, whose nature was love, 
and whose heart had only been shut up by the 
collapsing power of some great calamity, await- 
ing through all the dark years for the coming 
of a bright spirit that might have power to 
open it. 

The love and the confidence between those two 
did not grow less. They rather strengthened 
and deepened day by day. The child was bright 
and vigorous, possessed of perfect health, and a 
happy, gleesome disposition ; and Rachel was 
tender and considerate, accepting the charge as 
a blessing from Heaven, sent to make sunshine 
for the evening of her days. She adopted the 
foundling as her own, and gave to it her name ; 
and when, in time, the assessors came to take an 
inventory of her estate, and would have passed 
on without referring to the matter of school- 
children, she stopped them, and told them that 
there was one child in her family old enough to 
be classed, and she gave them the name — Chris- 
tine St. Clair. 


Fourteen Years A fter. 


31 


CHAPTER III. 

FOURTEEN YEARS AFTER. 

So the seasons passed for fourteen years. 
Christine St. Clair, at the age of seventeen, was 
not only beautiful in form and feature, but her 
graces of spirit were nearly angelic. In height 
she was of that medium standard which sculptors 
select for their most womanly creations, and the 
outlines of her form were as perfect as the most 
scrupulous artist could have desired. Her feat- 
ures, taking the more delicate lines from the 
meek and gentle spirit within, were simply lovely 
— lovely in repose and lovely when the warm, 
inspiring smiles irradiated their pure surface, and 
played around the bewitching dimples. Her 
eyes had gained depth and fervor to their soft 
azure, and the gold of the rich tresses had deep- 
ened to a warm, luxurious brown, which still 
shimmered with golden glow in the strong light. 
Her mind had grown and developed with her 
body. She loved nature, and loved to study and 


3 ^ 


Fourteen Years After, 


understand natural laws, not with that abstruse 
philosophizing which delves and digs, but with 
the poetic and artistic aspiration which soars, and 
feels most satisfied when nearest Heaven. 

In society, Christine was courted and admired, 
and yet, never for a moment, at the call of friend- 
ship or pleasure, did she forsake her dear old 
mother when she thought her presence could 
give joy or relief. She called Rachel St. Clair 
“ mamma.” The word had dropped first in lov- 
ing music, from her own desire of love, and 
Rachel had thereafter begged her to call her so 
always. 

Early in the summer of Christine’s eighteenth 
year (always supposing that she had been three 
years of age when left at the Brookside), she was 
walking, late in the day, alone in the garden. 
The great city had been pushing its brick walls 
far out upon the highlands, and many a spot that 
had been green with grass and shady with old 
trees during the maiden’s early childhood was 
now packed with the habitations of man ; but no 
encroachment had been suffered upon the Brook- 
side grounds. Madame Rachel preserved her 
garden and her lawn and her park intact ; and 


Fourteen Years A fter. 


the only change she had made in answer to the 
outsetting tide of construction had been the 
building of higher fences around her estate. 

Christine strayed down by the great willows 
that drooped above the brook. The air was 
soft and balmy, and the influence of the evening 
shadows, after the hot day, was most grateful. 
The maiden stopped beneath one of the larger 
trees — a patriarch, whose branches entirely over- 
arched the stream, the bending boughs of the 
lower limbs touching the water ; and here, upon 
a rude bench she sat down. She had much to 
think of. The love of Madame Rachel was 
scarcely ever absent from her thoughts ; and 
even when the mind was occupied with other 
themes, and thought of that love might seem 
absent, it was yet a present power, operative, 
though silent, a part of the very basis upon 
which the superstructure of joy and gratitude 
was erected. 

On the present occasion, Christine was evi- 
dently thinking of something beyond the ever}'- 
day blessings. There was a latent warmth in 
the eye, a delicate flush upon the cheek, an 
eager, wistful parting of the lips, and a fitful 


34 


Fourteen Years A fter. 


heaving of the bosom, as though emotions new 
and strange were stirring within. She sat thus, 
with her hands pressed over her heart, when she 
was aroused by the sound of footsteps, and 
upon looking up, she beheld a man who had 
approached close to her seat. Until that 
moment, she had not realized how long she had 
sat beneath the old tree. The shades of the 
closing day had deepened into an unbroken vail, 
and in the west, beyond the brook and beyond 
the Middlesex Hills, the evening star was shin- 
ing. The man came nearer and she saw that he 
was past the middle-age — a hard-faced, broad- 
shouldered man, with evil eyes and bated breath. 
He was respectably dressed, not in the garb of 
labor, but in clothing which had once been fine 
and fashionable, but which had now become 
worn so that in some places it was threadbare. 
Christine would have hurried away, but he was 
directly in her path, so that she could not leave 
the place without jostling him. 

“ Miss,” said he, with vulgar courtesy, you 
must not fear me. I am not mistaken in call- 
ing you Miss St. Clair ?” v 

That is my name, sir.” 


Fourteen Years A fter. 


35 


“ You are the young lady who lives with 
Madame Rachel?” 

“ I am, sir.” 

“ Is there any other young person living with 
Madame Rachel?” 

“ There is not, sir.” 

Christine looked toward the house, but only 
the obscure haze of trees and shrubbery met her 
gaze. She was beginning to be alarmed. 

“ Will you suffer me to pass, sir?” 

“ Certainly. I thank you for your informa- 
tion.” 

So speaking, the man stepped aside and bowed 
politely, with his hand upon his bosom. 

With a quick step, Christine moved past him ; 
but he, with a quicker, leaped and caught her in 
his strong arms, and pressed his hand over her 
mouth. 

“ Easy, my dear ! Make no noise, and you 
shall not be harmed. You need not struggle, 
for you must come with me. I have set my life 
upon the event, and I am not to be thwarted. 
Easy, I say ! If you give me occasion, I may do 
you harm.” 

We have said that Christine was in the pos- 


36 Fotirteen Years After. 

session of perfect physical health ; and so, too, 
were there strength and vigor in her delicately 
molded limbs. Instead of fainting with fear and 
fright, she gathered all her forces for resistance, 
and, with a desperate effort, broke from the 
hold upon her mouth and screamed aloud 
for help. The man grasped her with furious 
energy and dragged her toward the brook ; 
and he swore, as he did so, that he would kill 
her if she did not cease her struggling and her 
cries. 

Christine was strong, but the ruffian was far 
stronger ; and, moreover, her* strength was fail- 
ing, while that of the man was growing in vol- 
ume from rage and desperation. 

“ Help ! help !” cried the maiden once more. 

Help came. A lithe and manly form bounded 
upon the scene ; a keen, quick eye caught the 
situation ; and on the next instant a blow 
sent the ruffian staggering backward into the 
brook. 

“Christine! Christine! Lookup. You are 
not hurt ?“ 

The maiden looked up into the frank, hand- 


Fourteen Years A fter. 


37 


some face, and then suffered herself to be drawn 
upon the welcome bosom. 

“ No, Paul, I am not hurt. Oh ! I am glad 
you came.” 

“ But, who is it? What is it? What — ” 

The new-comer’s speech was cut short by a 
loud splashing in the water, and, upon looking 
in that direction, he saw that the ruffian had 
regained his feet, and was dashing through the 
brook. He would have leaped after him, and 
tried to secure him, but he could not leave 
Christine. 

“ Do not follow him, Paul.” 

I will not leave you, Christine. But tell me, 
what does it mean?” 

As they walked up from the brookside, the 
girl told the story. 


38 


Loves Promise, 


CHAPTER IV. 
love’s promise. 

The man who had come so opportunely to 
Christine’s assistance, and who now walked by 
her side, listening to her story, was not yet one- 
and-twenty, though he lacked only a few months 
of that age. Yet he was a strong and well- 
developed man, as had been amply evident from 
the manner in which he had disposed of the ruf- 
fian upon whom his hand had fallen. Of medium 
height ; possessing a well-proportioned and 
firmly knit frame ; a face of genial, winning 
beauty ; a brow broad and full ; a grandly 
shaped head, with clustering locks of brown 
hair. His eyes were of a bright, lustrous gray, 
verging upon the azure tint ; and there was a 
dimple in his handsome chin which seemed a 
finishing touch to the cheerful face. His name 
was Paul Way brook, and he was very near the 
close of his last year in college. His father was 
Nathan Way brook, a wealthy merchant of Bos- 


Loves Pronase, 


39 


ton — wealthy and aristocratic — whose residence 
was near Brookside Cottage. 

Paul and Christine had known each other from 
early childhood. Paul had been one of the first 
with whom the foundling had formed a friend- 
ship outside of the cottage ; and yet, their asso- 
ciations had not been always intimate. Rachel 
St. Clair had been wary that her darling pro- 
tegee should not cultivate friendships to her harm ; 
and the aristocratic merchant, aware of the mys- 
tery of Christine’s origin, had discountenanced 
his son’s association with her. Another thing, 
perhaps, had, of late, influenced Madame Rachel 
in repelling the too familiar friendship of the 
youth. Since entering college, he had evinced 
a waywardness and a wildness of disposition 
which had more than once threatened cause of 
expulsion, and which might have worked to that 
serious end had it not been that his lessons were 
nearly perfect, his treatment of his tutors 
respectful, and his general character manly and 
frank ; and also, his father’s influence was in his 
favor. 

“ I think you have occasion for pride rather 
than alarm,” said a Harvard professor, with 


40 


Love s Promise, 


whom Mr. Waybrook was discussing his son’s 
proclivity to mischief. “Your son is frank and 
bold. He conceals nothing. What he does he 
does openly and above board. A mean or cow- 
ardly act has never been traced to his hands, and 
1 know he would scorn a dishonest act. If I am 
not entirely wrong in my judgment^ he will 
graduate with honor, and what now seems to be 
defects in youth will become good points in 
manhood. If you would save him to his best 
estate you must trust him. Give him your con- 
fidence, and seek rather to elevate his native 
instincts than to crush them.” 

“ But,” urged the parent, “ he must be taught 
obedience.” 

The professor shrugged his shoulders. 

“You should know your own son, Mr. Way- 
brook. I have known him for more than three 
years, and, during that time, I have been called 
upon to set him to disagreeable tasks, and yet he 
never disobeyed me. I have led him where I 
never could have driven him. He will yield to 
love and reason ; but — pardon me for saying it — 
I fear that he will never yield to an authority 
that trenches upon his manly rights.” 


Loves Promise. 


41 


The merchant closed his hand with a hard 
gripe. The expression of his face was unyield- 
ing ; and the professor said to himself, as he left 
the counting-house, that if ever those two come 
into serious conflict, there would be no conces- 
sion. 

Yet Paul and Christine had often met, and 
Rachel, when she found that the companionship 
gave joy to her darling, had not objected to his 
visiting the cottage. For this purpose, Paul had 
come over on the present evening, and not find- 
ing Christine in, he had gone off in search of her, 
and had found her, as we have seen. 

“ What can it mean ?” said he, when Christine 
had told how the man had come upon her. 

But she could not imagine. She had never 
seen the wretch before, nor had she ever before 
been molested while walking upon the grounds. 

“ Oh, Paul ! 1 am so glad you came !” And 

she looked up into his face with such a heavenly 
glow of confiding trust and affection, that he 
instinctively stopped and drew her to his bosom. 

“ Christine,” he cried, the speech bursting forth 
as though long since formed and long pent up, 
“ there never can be a more fitting time than this. 


42 


Love s Promise, 


for the opening of my heart’s holiest treasure to 
her who has long possessed it. Christine, you 
know I love you ! Will you not say to me that 1 
am loved in return?” 

She looked up with a sweet smile, and gave 
him both her hands. 

“ Paul,” she said, with noble frankness, “ my 
heart’s warmest and most devoted love is yours 
— has been yours for a long, long time. I should 
be false to you and false to myself, were I to deny 
it, or refuse to acknowledge it.” 

“ Blessed girl !” 

“ And, Paul, I ask no other love but yours — no 
other love which man can give to woman.” 

“ My own angel !” 

He took her more closely to his bosom, and 
their lips met in a warm, impassioned kiss — the 
seal of a love deep, pure, true and holy. 

And then Christine gently disengaged herself, 
and through the gathering gloom he could see 
that she was sober and earnest. 

“ Paul,” she said, raising her hand as though it 
were a partition between them, ** let us rest with 
this knowledge until we know that our love will 


Loves Promise, 


43 


be countenanced by those who have a right to 
share in our care and confidence.” 

“ Do you think Madame Rachel would object ?” 
Paul asked, quickly. 

“ My good mother will surely study my happi- 
ness ; and I think, Paul, her first query would be 
concerning the disposition of your father.” 

“ My father!” repeated the youth, with a start. 

“ He is a stern man, Paul, and may not fancy 
your marrying a poor, nameless foundling.” 

“ Hush, darling ! He dares not trifle with my 
heart. He will not. I will speak to him this 
very night, and I will have his answer before I 
return to Cambridge.” 

“ And until then, Paul, let us be friends as we 
have been.” 

'‘With promise of bliss in the future,” he 
added, rapturously. 

“ Such promise will make me very happy, 
Paul.” 

“ Bless you, dearest !” 

Another kiss, and they entered upon the grav- 
eled walk before the dwelling, and met Madame 
Rachel upon the piazza. She wondered why 
her darling was out in the evening dew with so 


44 


Love s Promise, 


slight a covering, and thereupon Christine told 
her of the startling adventure by the brookside, 
and how Paul had rescued her. 

Rachel St. Clair was seriously alarmed. She 
led the way to the sitting-room, where she heard 
the story over again, and where she asked many 
questions ; but nether Christine nor Paul could 
give her further information. 

When Paul had taken his leave, and Chris- 
tine had gone out to look to matters in the 
kitchen, Rachel sat alone, and reflected upon 
what she had heard. She was impressed with a 
fear that harm hung over the way of her darling. 
She had sought, by every means in her power, 
to reach a solution of the mystery of Christine’s 
parentage. Her Boston lawyer, Adam Halford, 
had had the matter in charge for years ; but not 
a ray of light had been shed upon it. During 
the first year of the foundling’s residence at the 
cottage, old Tom had seen a woman hovering 
near. The last time he had seen her was late in 
the summer, or early autumn, near the close of 
a very pleasant day. At the time, Christine,, 
then a'gleesome child, had been playing upon 
the lawn, and the woman had entered at the gate 


Love s Promise. 


45 


and ensconced herself beneath a linden, whence 
she watched the little one with eager interest. 
Tom summoned his mistress, but before she 
came the strange intruder had gone. Tom 
described her as a woman well advanced in life — 
sixty at least — poorly but neatly dressed; with 
a face dark and sad, though by no means evil ; 
and he was sure that she had regarded the child 
with an expression of pleasure. Rachel listened 
and questioned and was sure that it was the same 
woman who had peered in at the window upon 
her. 

All this had passed years before, and the 
strange woman had not been seen from that day 
to this. 

And now, queried Rachel, had the ruffian of 
the brookside any connection with the woman 
of the other years ? She could not think so. In 
short, she knew not what to think, and while she 
was bothering her brain over the matter, Chris- 
tine came in and kissed her, and sat down at the 
pianoforte, and sung for her, and thus, for the 
time, dissipated the cloud. 

Meantime, Paul Way brook had repaired to 
his own house, and sought his father. 


46 


Loves Promise, 


The Way brook mansion was one of the finest 
in the suburbs. The owner called it “ Elmside 
Hall.” He had English tastes, and in his dwel- 
ling had copied the mansion of a friend in the 
mother country. As his ancestors had left him 
no coat of arms, he caused the initials of his 
name to be wrought into a labyrinthic mono- 
gram, which was emblazoned in every possible 
place where a proper regard for artistic effect 
would suffer it to appear. 

Nathan Way brook was a man of fifty, or there- 
abouts ; a proud and handsome man — proud of 
himself and proud of his surroundings, and, more 
than all, proud of his success in life. In demo- 
cratic America, he could purchase no patent of 
nobility — not even the title of knighthood. 
“ Sir Nathan ” had a grand sound, but the note 
was beyond his reach. At length, however, a 
happy idea struck him. He offered himself to 
his friends as a candidate for the State Senate. 
His friends drew upon him for twenty thousand 
dollars. He honored the draft, and was duly 
nominated by a legal caucus of the dominant 
party, which nomination was equivalent to an 
election. And thus he gained a grand title, and 


Love s Promise. 


47 


became thenceforth “ The Honorable Nathan 
Waybrook.” 

Mr. Waybrook was in his library, engaged in 
the examination of a report of sales of stock, 
when his son entered. He laid down the paper 
and looked up. 

“ Well, Paul, I suppose you are off for college 
on the morrow?” 

Yes, father; but before I go I have a matter 
of importance in mind which I wish to present 
to you.” 

There was a slight tremulousness in the 
youth’s voice, but his face was clear and his lip 
firm. Only his heart gave throbbing to his 
speech. He sat down, and his father wheeled 
about in his revolving-chair and regarded him 
earnestly. 

“ I wish to speak to you,” pursued Paul, in 
answer to a permissive nod, “of Christine St. 
Clair. I shall very shortly leave college and go 
into the profession which I am to follow. I have 
chosen to-day the partner who is to share with 
me all the joys and the cares of life. She and I 
understand each other, and are prepared for 


48 


Loves Promise. 


those mutual trusts and concessions which are 
necessary to happiness.” 

“ Upon my soul, young- man, you are a 
philosopher!” 

There was a touch of derision in the mer- 
chant’s tone, and there was a curl of displeasure 
about his finely cut lips ; but when he saw how 
sternly sedate and respectful his son was, and 
how bright and certain was the light of the deep 
gray eyes, he unbent from the indignant mood 
which had at first possessed him. He was a 
man of business, and in the transaction of busi- 
ness he used but few words. His “ No ” was 
“ No,” and his “Yes” was “Yes.” In the Sen- 
ate, his longest speech had been “Yea” and 
“ Nay.” He was not an eloquent man — not 
gifted with great flow of language — but no man 
lived who could more surely bend language to 
the clear and comprehensive exposition of his 
purpose. 

The Hon. Nathan Waybrook folded up his 
paper and laid it upon the table ; then he 
removed his gold-bowed spectacles and laid 
them by its side, and then he leaned back and 


Love's Promise, 


49 


folded his arms, and regarded his son with a 
calm, dignified scrutiny. 

“ Paul, the girl of whom you have spoken is 
not my choice. My position in society is an 
exalted one. I wish you to occupy an exalted 
position. I have friends high in station and 
power, from whose families I would prefer that 
you should select a wife— Stop! Do not inter- 
rupt me. I know your weakness. You have 
inherited it from your mother. She came from 
the lower walks in life, and I could never instill 
into her mind a spirit of pride fit to adorn the 
station to which I had raised her.” 

Paul’s face flushed, and his heart beat quickly. 
He remembered that mother — long since at rest 
from earthly toil — a mild, faithful, loving woman, 
whose highest source of happiness had been the 
happiness of those dependent upon her. He 
remembered the pure and holy lessons that 
mother had taught him ; and he said to himself 
that all of the true and generous aspiration that 
stirred and uplifted his soul he had gained from 
his blessed mother. And one other thing Paul 
could not forget : He could not forget that his 
father, though of an aristocratic family, so far as 


50 


Love s Promise, 


pretensions were concerned, had nevertheless 
been poor in youth, and that in marrying- the 
sweet girl who became his wife he married a for- 
tune. She had been of humble extraction, but a 
wealthy bachelor uncle had left her a store of 
gold, which gold had been sufficient to bring the 
worship of Nathan Way brook to its shrine. 

However, Paul bit his tongue and held his 
peace, and his father continued : 

'‘Were I to select for you, Paul, I should 
select with a higher aim. But you have chosen 
to anticipate me. Have you spoken to the 
girl?- 

“ I have.” 

“You have told her that you love her?” 

“ I have.’ 

“ And she has confessed a reciprocal love?” 

The cold sneer which seemed to give color to 
these interrogatories cut Paul to the quick, and 
made him angry ; but he held his temper. 

“ She has confessed that she loves me, sir, and 
that she’s willing to become my wife when those 
who have the right to advise us shall consent.” 

“In which latter respect she has shown her 
discretion.” 


A Ma7t of Business, 


51 


Mr. Way brook thus spoke, and then arose and 
walked to the window. When he came back, he 
said to his son : 

“ You return to Cambridge to-morrow?” 

“ Yes, sir,” was the son’s reply. 

“ 1 will give .you an answer before you go. 
That will do.” 


CHAPTER V. 

A MAN OF BUSINESS. 

Paul understood the hint conveyed in his 
father’s words, and without further remark with- 
drew from the library. 

Nathan Waybrook reflected for a season with 
his head resting upon his hand. Then he arose, 
and reflected pacing to and fro. At length he 
stopped and looked at his watch. It was not yet 
late. He went into the hall and put on his hat, 
and then went out and walked to' the Brookside 
Cottage. He found Madame Rachel and Chris- 


52 


A Man of Business. 


line together in the sitting-room, but the latter 
withdrew as he entered. 

The woman, who had heard Christine’s story, 
knew the business of her visitor. She studied his 
face and his bearing as he sat down. Way brook, 
when he met the keen, self-possessed glance of 
the hostess, felt sure that he was understood, and 
that preliminaries would be needless. 

Accordingly, he opened his business at once. 

“ I have promised,” he said, in conclusion, “ to 
give my son an answer to-morrow.” 

“Mr. Waybrook,” returned Rachel, with dig- 
nity, “ I have considered this matter seriously, 
and am only anxious for the happiness and wel- 
fare of my precious ward. You know her well. 
You have seen her outgoings and incomings 
from childhood to present. What you see her in 
her best mood she is always. She is a treasure 
and a blessing to me, and she will be the same to 
the man who wins her for a wife, if he be true 
and loyal.” 

“ I am willing to admit all that,” said Way- 
brook ; “ and now, let us come to another point. 
Will Christine inherit your property?” 


A Man of Business, 


53 


The face of the woman flushed, and her dark 
eyes flashed. 

“ I am a man of business, and of few words,” 
explained the visitor, when he marked the effect 
of his abrupt question. “ There is no need of* 
beating around the bush when the matter is plain 
before us.” 

“ Does your son join you in this investigation ?” 
asked Rachel. 

“No,” said Way brook. “He is young and 
headstrong. His only weakness, inherited from 
his mother, is lack of that pride and foresight 
which are so essential to honorable success and 
station in life. I am frank, you see.” 

The woman’s lips curled and her countenance 
speedily brightened. 

“ God forbid,” she said, “ that I should make 
the hand of the sweet child a thing of barter. 
But I tell you, Mr. Way brook,” and her eyes 
flamed with a proud and defiant light as she 
spoke, “ that Christine St. Clair, if she lives, shall 
be able to outweigh your gold, pile it as high 
upon your banker’s scales as ever you can ! 
Would you ask more ?” 

The honorable gentleman had gained the infor- 


54 


A Man of Business, 


mation he desired, and with gracious thanks he 
retired. 

On the following morning, Paul was informed 
by his father that there was no objection to his 
paying his addresses to Christine St. Clair. He 
had started for the Brookside Cottage to share 
his joy with the girl, when he observed a crowd 
of men and boys collected near the railroad, and 
'an impulse drew him to the spot. The body of 
a man had been found in a gully close by the 
track, stark and dead, with both legs broken, and 
a deep gash at the back of the head. The engi- 
neer of the late inward-bound freight-train from 
Providence was present, and he said that at that 
spot, on the previous night, a man had attempted 
to cross the track before his engine. He had not 
seen him until fairly in his way, and had passed 
on, thinking that the man had crossed in safety. 
Paul Waybrook looked upon the broken corpse 
— looked upon the cold, dark face — and knew it 
for the man from whom he had rescued Christine 
on the previous evening. 

Officers came and examined the body, and 
called for some one to identify it. But none 
present could do so. The pockets of the deceased 


The Lawyer s Clerk, 


55 


were searched, and upon the inside of a morocco 
wallet, and upon one or two papers, a name 
was written, and that name was “ Adolphe 
Hugo.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE lawyer’s clerk. 

Madame Rachel, when she had heard from 
Paul the story of the dead man, sent for her 
lawyer and desired him to attend the inquest, 
and, if possible, to learn something of the ante- 
cedents of the deceased. This lawyer, as I have 
already stated, was Adam Halford, one of the 
most reliable and honorable attorneys of Boston. 
He was not gifted as a pleader, and he made no 
pretensions . to rank in cases where eloquent 
speeches were to be made to juries. His prov- 
ince was in the care of property, in the examina- 
tion of titles, in the preparation of deeds and 
wills, and in the general supervision of the 
estates of his clients. He was a man of three- 


56 


The Lazvyers Clerk. 


score, the very soul of honor and thoroughly 
educated in those departments of law of which 
his business required a knowledge. He was 
not a man of imagination ; he had little or no 
fancy, and he used language only to convey real 
thoughts. He dealt with facts, and he had no 
fear that, when once armed with facts, any man 
could overcome him with other weapons. 
Because he himself was honest, he did not 
think all the world honest, nor yet did he think 
that the majority of his fellows were burdened 
with that Christian commodity. Nevertheless, 
he put great confidence in the power of honest 
purpose, and was prone to believe that no 
scheme of dishonesty could succeed against the 
stern bulwark of Right, which he was ever pre- 
pared to hedge about his professional under- 
takings. 

Mr. Halford attended the inquest, and insti- 
tuted such inquiries as seemed expedient to him, 
but he learned nothing that he deemed of import- 
ance. He went to Madame Rachel with the 
result of his investigations. 

“ I find no'thing,” he said, “ upon which I can 


The Lawyer s Clerk. 


57 


hinge a suspicion. Do the circumstances I have 
related afford to you any clue ?” 

Rachel St. Clair shook her head. She said 
that she had never heard the man’s name before, 
and could conceive of no reason for the 
ruffianly attack, save the impulse of brutish- 
ness. 

“ I never knew but one man of the name,” 
said the lawyer, “and,” he added, with a smile, 
“ the circumstance affords quite a coincidence. 
I have not looked into the directory to assure 
myself upon the point, but I think the only man 
of the name of ‘ Hugo ’ in the city is in my 
employ.” 

“ How ?” uttered Rachel, with interest. “ I 
did not know that you had such a helper.” 

“ He is a clerk,” explained Halford, “ who has 
but recently entered upon the service. He is a 
young man of eight-and-twenty, or thereabouts, 
from the West. He applied to me a month ago 
for a situation as clerk, bringing very high 
recommendations from leading men in St. Louis, 
and other western cities, and I assure you I 
have found him a valuable acquisition. His 
plan had been to settle in Chicago, and enter 


58 


The Lawyer s Clerk, 


upon the same line of business there that I tran- 
sact here, and in order to perfect himself in that 
particular department of legal jurisprudence 
he came to Boston, and was recommended 
to call upon me. He called, and offered to 
give me his services for six months as clerk 
and copyist, for the privilege of studying with 
me.” 

Mr. Halford drank a glass of wine to moisten 
his lips, and then crossed his legs and rubbed 
his hands ; and his homely face beamed with 
good-natured satisfaction as he went on to tell of 
his new clerk : 

“ It was a great hit for me, Madame Rachel. 
Business was accumulating and pressing upon 
my hands until I began to fear that I should 
have to send some of my legal documents out to 
be copied. But — presto ! — this man drops down 
upon me in just the nick of time. He is a splen- 
did stenographer and typewriter, and rapid. 
He copies, and arranges, and translates, and 
revises, and corrects with a readiness and assur- 
ance which are wonderfully sustained in perfect 
results. Instead of allowing him to serve me 
for nothing, I have insisted upon paying him 


The Lawyer s Clerk. 


59 


handsome wages ; and, moreover, I shall keep 
him with me, if I can.” 

“You like him, then?” suggested Rachel. 
She had been really interested in the lawyer's 
glowing account of the new clerk. 

“ I more than like him,” replied Halford. “ I 
doubt if I could find his equal for my service, 
and I am confident I could not find his 
superior.” 

“ And his name is ‘ Hugo ?’ ” 

Caspar Hugo.” 

“ Have you asked him concerning this dead 
man ?” 

“ Yes. He went with me to the inquest. But 
he knew nothing of the tramp. The coincidence 
struck him, as it did me, as being peculiar ; and 
he seemed quite nettled with the thought that he 
should have found his family name belonging to 
such a rascal. However, that matters not. The 
rascal is out of the way, and I think you have 
nothing to fear further. He was but a brute of 
passage, and his race is run.” 

Madame thanked the lawyer for his kindness, 
and pressed upon him another glass of wine. 




6o T/ie Lawyer s Clerk. 

The glasses were small, and the wine was of the 
pure fruit of the vine. 

“ I think,” said Halford, as he stood in the 
hall, with his hat in his hand, “ that I will bring 
my clerk over with me the next time I come, 
and give him an insight into your business. We 
know not what may happen. In case of acci- 
dent to myself, it might be well that he should 
understand such matters as require professional 
oversight.” 

Rachel St. Clair was willing to trust entirely 
in her lawyer’s long-tried judgment and experi- 
ence. He would please her by doing as he 
thought best. 

Adam Halford once more sought to impress 
upon his client’s mind that she need borrow no 
further uneasiness from the circumstance he had 
been called to investigate, and then he took his 
leave. When he had gone, Madame Rachel 
called Christine, and informed her of the result. 

The girl was not inclined to borrow unneces- 
sary trouble. She was too happy in the knowl- 
edge of another event which had transpired close 
upon the heels of the adventure by the brook- 
side, She was allowed to love Paul Way brook, 


The Lawyer s Clerk. 


6i 


and in the light of this great blessing all other 
events of life assumed a roseate hue and warmth. 
She was joyous and buoyant, and dreamed not 
that evil could lurk in a world which had grown 
so fair and beautiful. But evil was on the wing, 
nevertheless. 

Within a week from that time, Rachel St. 
Clair was seized with an epileptic fit, and when 
she had recovered from it, she found herself 
weak and prostrate. The physician saw no pres- 
ent cause of alarm, but he advised his patient that 
she should be very careful of her diet, and seek 
rest. He gave her to understand that the sick- 
ness had resulted from indigestion, and that she 
must guard against such cause in the future. 
But, afterward, he told Christine that Rachel 
was failing. 

“You do not think she will die?” cried the 
girl, in alarm. 

The doctor looked at her with an uncertain 
expression. 

“ Do you know how old your mother is?” 

“ Yes, sir. She is over eighty.” 

“ Eighty-five, at least, if I mistake not?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 


62 


The Lawyer s Clerk. 


“ Then you yourself should judge how strong 
her hold upon life can be. Look to her well. 
She cannot be with you long.” 

Christine had scarcely thought of this, and 
the blow seemed for the moment to crus’ her 
with its horror. The physician tried to cheer 
her. Her kind protector might be with her yet 
for months. 

“ Let it be your study,” he said, ere he 
departed, “ to make her as comfortable and as 
happy as you can. Cheerfulness of spirit is the 
very best medicine she can take.” 

Under the influence of gentle restoratives and 
the gentler ministrations of Christine, Rachel 
was on the following day able to sit up, and ^e 
professed to feel quite like herself again. She 
marked the shadows upon her darling’s face, 
and, drawing the sunny head upon her bosom, 
she said : 

“ Do not grieve, Christine. We have nothing 
to fear — we have no occasion for alarm.” 

She kissed the fair brow, and presently 
added : 

“ The event is in the hands of God. His will 
be done ! What to you may seem the worst, 


The Lazvyers Clerk. 


63 


may be the best for me. I am old, and near my 
journey’s end ; you are young, and your journey 
is just commenced. If I can see you happily 
fixed in life, I can pass over the river without a 
regret. But for you, my darling, these last years 
of my life would have been heavy and sad. You 
have made them bright and blessed. Let that 
thought give you comfort.” 

Christine could not command speech for reply. 
She could only cling around her guardian’s neck, 
and kiss and bless her. 

Another morning found Rachel St. Clair able 
to be dressed, and to sit at the table ; but the old 
feeling of strength and assurance was lacking. 
There was a sense of tremulousness; and when 
she remembered her four-score-and-five years, she 
was fain to acknowledge that the race might be 
nearly run. She sent for old Tom, and bade him 
go and bring her lawyer. 

“ Tom,” she said, slowly shaking her head, “ my 
mind is failing as well as my body. Once, you 
know, I called only upon you when I needed the 
services of one in whom I could with the utmost 
assurance confide.” 

“ Glory to God ! I ha’n’t forgot it, missus. An’ 


64 


The Lawyer s Clerk. 


dis yer ole heart is as true to-day as it was in dem 
times long, long ago ; but de body am weak, 
missus.” 

“ I know it, Tom. I didn’t think when I called 
you. You ask me how old you are. Don’t you 
know ?” 

“ Not ’xactly, missus.” 

‘‘ You are older than I am, Tom. You were a 
stout boy when I was a helpless little girl. I 
can remember of your carrying me in your 
arms.” 

“ ’Deed, missus, I ’member it jes’ as do’ ’twas 
only yesterday ; and from dat day to dis, t’ro’ 
all de years, dar’s nebber been a time when it 
wouldn’t ’ab done me good to take ye an’ carry 
ye jes’ like I did in de long ago. Bress ye, 
missus! Bress ye always !” 

“ Thank you, Tom. You may send Lora here. 
She had better go for the lawyer.” 

“ Ye don’t blame me, missus, ’cause I’s weak 
an’ shaky ?” > 

“ Bless you, dear old Tom ; never I” 

“ Glory to God for dat ! I’ll send dat ar gal 
right along.” 

Lora was summoned — now a strong woman of 


The Lawyer's Clerh. 


65 


five-and-forty — and to her was intrusted the duty 
of calling the lawyer. 

“ And,” said Rachel, “ tell him that I shall have 
important writing for him to do.” 

It was afternoon when the lawyer came, and 
with him came his confidential clerk, Caspar 
Hugo ; and while the former went in to see his 
client, the latter took a seat in the small drawing- 
room. 

Hugo was a man of eight-and-twenty — we take 
him at his own word, given to his employer, 
though he looked older than that — and he had the 
appearance of a gentleman of refinement and 
polish. As he sat alone in the drawing-room, 
with his features left to their natural play, an 
opportunity was afforded for a fair study of his 
face ; and Christine, who chanced upon the piazza, 
looked in at the open window and saw him. She 
stood by the thickly clustering trail of honey- 
suckle that climbed over the trellis of the porch, 
and gazed through the interstices upon that 
strange face. She saw a face colorless like mar- 
ble, or more like clay ; a broad under jaw, with a 
receding chin ; a mouth rather larger than the 
average of mouths, with an under lip which. 


66 


The Lawyer s Clerk. 


partly from the receding of the chin, and partly 
from its own bulk, drooped heavily, but this 
drooping was only at intervals of repose ; there 
were strong muscles all over the jaw which could 
tighten the lips like the jaws of a vise upon occa- 
sion. The nose was marked and prominent, 
broad at the base, and forming, in profile, a sharp 
angle. That nose, with a good brain above it, 
might indicate the worker of great deeds ; it 
was like the cutwater of a ship, made to cleave 
its way against tough and boisterous opposi- 
tion ; or, like the hardened point of the plow- 
share, forcing its way beneath the toughest sod 
for the purpose of breaking up and overturning. 
The brow was a counterpart of the chin, heavy 
over the eyes, and thence receding beneath the 
dark, glossy hair ; hair parted in the center, and 
brushed away until each separate fiber seemed to 
have its place from which it could not move. 
The eyes were dark and gleaming, and like the 
oriental carbuncle in color — of that deep, fiery 
garnet hue, which may look black in the shade, 
and gleam like a Congo’s eyes in the strong light. 
The only hair upon his face was a neatly trimmed 
mustache, the ends of which were evidently 


The Lawyer s Clerk, 


67 


waxed ; and this mustache, to the casual obser- 
ver, had much to do with passing the face as 
comely, as it exhibited the pearly teeth to advan- 
tage, and served as a counterbalance to the heavy 
nether lip. 

As the man sat there by the drawing-room 
table, he twisted a piece of paper in his fingers — 
twisted it until he had twisted it in two ; then 
he twisted the two pieces together — twisted 
until they broke again ; then another twist, until 
the mass had been formed into a bullet, after 
which he threw it upon the carpet and rolled it 
under his feet. 

Ere long Lora presented herself in the draw- 
ing-room, and desired the gentleman to follow 
her to her mistress’ apartment. Hugo arose, 
and took a green bag from the table and went 
with the servant. In a pleasant chamber, over- 
looking a garden of roses, he found the lawyer 
and with him the lady of the house. 

Caspar Hugo passed the threshold, and 
stopped. He stopped to look at the woman 
who sat in the great stuffed chair between the 
table and the bed. Was he thinking how 
grandly she looked in her venerable age, or was 


68 


The Lawyer's Clerk. 




he calculating how much longer a person so old 
and so shattered could survive ? 

“ Madame St. Clair,” said the lawyer, arising 
as he spoke, “ this is the young man I told you 
of — Caspar Hugo. Caspar, this is my honored 
client, Madame Rachel St. Clair.” 

“ I am glad to see you, sir,” said madame. 

“ The recommendation of Mr. Halford is a suffi- 
cient introduction to my good opinion.” 

“ I can only hope,” returned the clerk, bowing 
very low, “ that my own merits may sustain that 
opinion.” 

“ If you serve me well and truly,'’ nodded 
Rachel, “you will find my good opinion not 
entirely void of worth.” 

Hugo bowed again, this time with his hand • 
upon his bosom, after which the lawyer sug- 
gested that they should proceed to business. 

Madame nodded assent, and the clerk took his 
seat at the table, and brought forth his writing 
materials from the green bag. 

“ First,” said Rachel, when she had been 
informed that they were ready for business, 

“ you have two wills of mine — wills which were 
made many years ago !” 


The Lawyer s Clerk. 


69 


Mr. Halford drew from his breast-pocket a 
large envelope, and took therefrom the two wills 
in question. 

“ Before proceeding further,” pursued ma- 
dame, “ I would have those wills destroyed. I 
think that would be proper.” 

“ Entirely proper.” 

“Then you may burn them.” 

There had been a fire in the marble-framed fire- 
place, as Rachel had felt chilly, and embers were 
still alive upon the hearth. Halford had arisen, 
and was proceeding toward the fire-place with the 
papers when his clerk touched him upon the arm. 

“Would it not be well, sir, to have a witness 
to this deed ?” 

The lawyer turned and looked upon his clerk. 

“You and I,” pursued Hugo, “as attorney 
and clerk, have a certain legal interest in this 
matter. Our venerable and respected client 
may not, when the time of need shall come, be 
with us to declare that she ordered the destruc- 
tion of these important instruments. I might 
summon the woman who brought me hither.” 

“ It may be well,” said the attorney, after a 
pause. “ You may call the servant.” 


70 


The Lawyer s Clerk, 


So Caspar Hugo went out and found Lora, 
and brought her in, and she was made to under- 
stand the nature of the work which was to be 
done, and to also understand that it was done by 
order of madame. Then the papers were con- 
signed to the flames, and when they had been 
utterly consumed, Lora was suffered to with- 
draw. 

And now came the making of a new will — the 
work for which the lawyer had been summoned. 
The work was simple. Of debts, there were 
none to pay. A legacy of two thousand dollars 
was set down for John Downey, the faithful gar- 
dener, and a legacy of one thousand dollars for 
Johanna, his wife. Then ten thousand dollars 
were set down as a bequest to her faithful friend 
and attorney, Adam Halford. A few minor 
legacies were noted, and then the great bulk of 
property, of all kinds and descriptions, was 
given to “ My adopted and well-beloved child, 
called Christine St. Clair.” And said Christine 
was charged that the servants of the household 
were to be her sacred charge while they lived. 

Madame Rachel dictated the chief points ; Mr. 
Halford suggested the proper legal phraseology. 


The Lawyers Clerk, 71 

and Caspar Hugo wrote it down upon the white, 
parchment-like paper. When this had been 
done, the will was ready for signing and witness- 
ing. 

Madame Rachel was notional upon this point. 
She did not care that her neighbors should know 
her business. She proposed first that John 
Downey and his wife should come in and be 
witnesses, but Halford suggested that as they 
were interested as legatees, it would hardly be 
proper ; so two men who were at work under 
Downey’s charge were called in, and with Cas- 
par Hugo, three disinterested witnesses were 
thus obtained. These two men were Eben 
Sanders and Seth Davis, both New Hampshire 
men, who had worked in the gardens and upon 
the lawns of the Brookside for two or three 
years. Rachel St. Clair wrote her own name 
against the blue seal, and the witnesses then sub- 
scribed their names, after which the lawyer 
gave the legal finish. 

“You will take the will,” said Rachel, “ and 
make an attested copy, and, until I call for it, 
you may place it with my other papers.” 


72 


Two of a Kind. 


When the business had been finished, the 
attorney and his clerk withdrew. 

‘‘ Miss Christine is quite an heiress,” remarked 
Caspar Hugo, as they stepped out from the 
piazza. 

“ The richest of any I know,” responded Hal- 
ford. “ And she is worthy, too,” he added, with 
emphasis. 

The clerk was lost in his own thoughts, and 
made no further remark. 


CHAPTER VII. 

TWO OF A KIND. 

It was very near night when Mr. Halford and 
his clerk alighted from the street-car at Scollay’s 
Building and proceeded to their office on Court 
street. The office was on the second floor of a 
block since torn away to make room for a barn- 
like structure of marble — an office dingy and 
littered, but easy of access, and in the centre of 
much business. The lawyer unlocked an iron 


THE BURNING OP THE WILLS.— S'ec Page 70 



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Two of a Kind. 


73 


door upon the face of the rear wall, and having 
swung it open, another door, also of iron, was 
revealed ; and this was the entrance to a fire- 
proof safe, where valuable and important docu- 
ments were kept. When the newly made will 
and accompanying papers had been deposited in 
an oaken drawer upon which was pasted a slip 
of paper bearing the written name “ St. Clair,” 
and the doors had been re-closed and re-locked 
Halford turned to his clerk. 

“Hugo,” he said, “you will understand that 
this client is one of the most valuable on my 
list. I think I may say the most valuable. I 
shall not live forever, and who knows but that 
you may succeed me in business — ” 

The clerk interrupted his employer by a shake 
of the head. 

“ No, no, Mr. Halford. I shall not settle in 
Boston. And let us hope you may be spared for 
many a long year to come. You are still hearty 
and strong, and your temperate life gives prom- 
ise of increasing usefulness and honors.” 

The old lawyer was not insensible to such flat- 
tery, and he regarded his clerk with a benign 
appreciation. 


74 


Two of a Kind. 


Be your choice of location what it will,” he 
said, “ you will surely succeed. And yet I could 
wish that you might consent to remain with me. 
But we will let that pass, since you shake your 
head again. I was remarking to you concerning 
our client — Madame St. Clair. She has her 
peculiarities, as you may have observed ; and 
you are aware that the first study of an attorney 
should be to accommodate himself to the idio- 
syncrasies of those whom he would truly serve. 
Madame St. Clair is anxious that her private 
affairs should not be known. She shrinks from 
being made the theme of gossip, as she shrinks 
from public gaze. You will bear this in mind 
and keep your knowledge to yourself. There is 
one safe rule to follow — I have followed it all 
my life, and you can adopt it with profit: When 
you have taken a client, consider that the details 
of said client’s business are locked in your 
inmost bosom, and that your client alone has the 
key.” 

Hugo intimated that he had already resolved 
upon such a course. 

“ And,” he added, “ be sure that T hold the 
privacy of your business, to which I am neces- 


Two of a Kind. 


75 


sarily admitted, as something- sacred and 
inviolate.” 

‘‘1 think we understand one another,” said 
Halford, with a commendatory smile. “ Of 
course, people have seen us go to Madame St. 
Clair’s house ; and it is generally known that she 
is failing. The curious will be inclined to ask 
questions, and those who are not curious are 
very few.” 

“ I understand perfectly,” returned Caspar. 
“ That which is locked in your safe is to me as a 
sacred mystery.” 

As Adam Halford regarded his clerk, he 
beheld a man in appearance little less than a 
saint. So Adam Halford himself thought. You 
may say, perhaps, that Adam Halford was not a 
student of human nature — that he could not 
read physiognomy. Allow me to say that in an 
adjoining office was a professor who had made 
physiognomy a study, and who had often been 
called into court to testify as an expert upon the 
character of hand-writing. The professor had 
marked Hugo well, and had studied him care- 
fully, and he had said of him : 

That man, if he had an end to accomplish. 


76 


Two of a Kind. 


would admit no obstacle which he had power to 
overcome. If his end were a great one I should 
deem my life as a fleeting shadow if it stood in 
his way.” 

“ But would you trust him ?” a neighbor had 
once asked. 

And the professor had replied : 

“ With his interest secured, I would trust him 
to the uttermost bounds.” 

“ But with his interest in opposition to 3^ou ?” 

“To trust him then would be to sleep 
upon a mine to which the match had been 
applied !” 

And among them all there was not a suspicion 
that Caspar Hugo had an interest in opposition 
to the interests of his employer, or to those of 
his clients ; and so the belief was general that 
old Adam Halford had secured the services of a 
most excellent and trustworthy clerk. 

It was dusk when the lawyer and his clerk 
had completed their business for the day, and 
they came out from the office together. A brief 
conference at the lower door upon a particular 
item in the morrow’s routine, and then they 
separated, Mr. Halford going toward Washing- 


Two of a Kind. 


77 


ton street, as his dwelling was at the South 
End. 

Hugo stood upon the sidewalk and watched 
his employer until he had turned the corner 
from his sight, after which, he took his own way 
up Court street. He stopped in at a saloon and 
got a glass of brandy, and as he came out he 
turned down Hanover street, thence into Port- 
land, until he arrived at a narrow, dingy alley, 
the entrance to which was beneath a dilapidated 
wooden arch. Down this alley he found a door 
which he opened with a latch-key, and, upon the 
second floor of the dwelling thus entered, he 
found the apartment he sought. It was a 
respectably furnished room, and opening from it 
were two small bed-chambers, which appeared 
to complete the suite. It was a retired place, 
shut out from all passing observation, and the 
outer door by which Hugo had some in and the 
stairs he had ascended had no other use but to 
give access to these three apartments. There 
was an attic overhead, but it was in use only 
as a stow-hole for the lessees of the rooms 
below. 

In the chief apartment mentioned, a man was 


78 


Two of a Kind, 


sitting when the clerk entered. He was a man 
past the middle-age — fifty, perhaps, and he may 
have been more — respectably habited in dress- 
ing-gown and slippers. He was a man of medium 
height, heavily and strongly built, his only beard 
a heavy mustache of jetty blackness, while his 
hair, curling naturally about his ears and neck, 
was of the same ebon hue. But it was to be seen 
at a glance, by one at all observant of such mat- 
ters, that the jetty hue of hair and beard was the 
result of artificial dye. Close to the skin, upon 
the upper lip, might have been discovered eight- 
and-forty hours growth of beard of silvery 
gleaming. The lower jaw was broad and strong, 
the nose prominent, the cheek-bones high, and 
the brow low and receding. The eyes seemed, 
at first glance, to be small ; but the appearance 
was owing to their being so deeply set beneath 
the overhanging brows. They were of the very 
darkest hazel. 

As the two men came together in the light, 
there was to be observed a strong resemblance 
between them. There was the same shape of head 
and the same general contour of features ; and in 
form they were much alike, allowing for the 


Two of a Kind, 


79 


tendency to corpulence in the elder. It is safe 
to say that they were father and son. He of the 
dressing-gown and slippers called himself “ Alex- 
ander Hugo.” But his name was not in the city 
directory, nor had the ward committee or the 
district assessors ever found him. If he was 
known outside of his lodging-place, it must have 
been by another name. 

“ Caspar,” spoke the elder man, after he had 
Caught a view of the other’s face by the fading 
light, “ you have been fortunate.” 

The young man, who had drawn a chair for 
the purpose of sitting down, stopped in his 
movement, and regarded his father attentively. 

“ What makes you think so ?” 

“ I can see it in your eye.” 

“ Do I show any sign of jubilation ?” 

“ No. You are too well schooled for that. 
But I can see that a burden of doubt has been 
removed. I should judge, from your looks, that 
you had discovered a new and promising path.” 

“ You think so?” 

“ I think so, my boy. Am I not right?” 

“ Let us eat first, and we will talk afterward. 
I think I can interest you.” 


8o 


Two of a Kind. 


1 


A light luncheon sufficed for their supper. 
The larder of their chambers was not extensively 
supplied, but this was not from a spirit of penury 
nor yet from a lack of the love of creature com- 
forts. They feasted elsewhere. . The meal was 
dispatched, a candle and pipes lighted, and then 
Caspar remarked, with a darkening smile : 

“You are a good reader of physiognomy, 
governor. Can you tell me what particular 
stone I have turned over in our path ?" 

“ No, Caspar,” replied the parent. “ 1 wait to 
learn from your lips. Your face simply reveals 
the existence of a fact; your lips must eluci- 
date.” 

“Well,” said the son, with another smile — a 
smile of sinister import — “ I have got our work 
well in hand. By an extraordinary stroke of 
good fortune, I have been enabled to select a 
sure vantage ground, and when the time comes, 
I think we shall be able to strike an effectual 
blow.” 

“ Go on, my boy, let me hear the whole 
story.” 

Caspar seemed miserly of his good news. He 
had a budget so much richer than could have 


Two of a Kind, 


8i 


been possibly anticipated, that he was slow to 
open it. He disliked to give to his father such a 
volume of golden promise at a single sitting, but 
after a time he concentrated his thoughts and 
finally answered : 

“ Well, governor, in a nut-shell, then, here it 
is : This very day we have been out to the 
Brookside — Halford and I — and we have done 
some very important business for Madame 
Rachel. First, by her order, we destroyed two 
old wills — the only wills of her making then 
existing. After that, she dictated a new will, 
which I wrote out in form.” 

“ And by that will — ” 

As we had supposed,” replied Caspar to his 
father’s implied question, “ she leaves everything 
to her adopted child, Christine. A few legacies 
are given in other directions; but they are pica- 
yunes in comparison with the bulk of the 
property.” 

“ Do you know, my son, how much property 
there really is?” 

“ It cannot vary much from the estimate I 
gave you a week ago. It will foot up not far 
from two millions.” 


82 


Two of a Kind. 


Alexander Hugo rubbed his hands together 
with a griping motion, and his dark eyes gleamed 
expectantly. 

“ Where is the new will?” he asked. 

“ In our office. We are to make a copy, and 
return the original to Madame Rachel.” 

A brief silence ensued, which was broken by 
the father : 

“Have you planned further? Will the copy 
be made ?’ 

“Not if I can prevent it,” answered Caspar. 
“ But, if I am forced to make it, be sure I shall 
inform myself of the place of its deposit. How- 
ever, we must act in the future as circumstances 
shall direct. Our work is well commenced, and 
we will not fail.” 

“ There were witnesses to the will, of course ?” 

“Yes, two hayseeds who are employed upon 
the place. They are from New Hampshire; and 
I doubt if they are known in this section beyond 
the Brookside. It will not be much trouble to 
silence them.” 

Another pause, at the end of which Alexander 
asked : 

“ Did you see the girl?” 


Two of a Kind. 


83 


“ You mean Christine ?” 

“ Yes." 

“ I barely caught a glimpse of her as I was 
coming away. 

“ And you think her very handsome ?" 

“ ‘ Handsome ’ is no word for it." 

“ Do you still think of her as you did ?" 

Caspar’s eye flashed and the warm blood 
mounted to his cheek and temple. His hands 
were clutched nervously, and he ground his heel 
upon the floor. 

“ I will have that girl," he said, “if the deed is 
within my power. I want her for two reasons: 
In the first place, I want her for her beauty ; 
and, in the next place, with her in our keeping, 
either as my wife or otherwise, our work will be 
more safely accomplished. If our work suc- 
ceeds as I hope, she cannot stand in our way. If 
I can so manage that all traces of this new will 
are obliterated, we may snap our fingers at all 
the opposition the law can put in our path. But 
let her pass for the present. She is engaged 
to a young man of the name of Waybrook — Paul 
Waybrook — son of a Milk street jobber. I have 
seen the fellow, and he is of good blood. We 


84 


Two of a Kmd, 


may have to tackle him before we are through 
with our work. If we do, I shall leave him to 
you.” 

“All right,” responded the father. “ Be sure I 
will do my part. By my life, Caspar ! we begin 
to see light ahead. Our labor is likely to be 
rewarded.” 

“ If we are persistent and circumspect — yes,” 
replied the son, with a firm closing of the lips. 
“ But we have work before us ; and we must 
shut our eyes to all consequences except suc- 
cess.” 

Alexander Hugo arose and laid his hand upon 
his son’s shoulder. 

“ Depend upon me, my boy, for any work you 
may have in hand.” 

“ I told you of the two witnesses to the will,” 
said Caspar, looking up. “ Will you take them 
upon your hands? Remember, I have the old 
lawyer and the written documents to care for.” 

“ Put me on their track, and I will be respon- 
sible for them.” 

“Then let us spot them at once. I must go 
out to the Brookside this evening to look after 
Madame Rachel’s health. If you will come with 


Two of a Kind. 


85 


me, I will point out Eben Sanders and Seth 
Davis to you.” 

“ Be it as you will, my boy. I had thought of 
the night at Cary’s crib ; but this will be better. 
When will we start?” 

“At once; but not as we are. We’d better 
don our working-rigs.” 

They adjourned to one of the smaller rooms, 
and when they emerged thence, there had 
occurred a transformation as surprising as it was 
complete. Caspar had donned a rough suit of 
soiled and patched cotton stuff, such as was worn 
by the very lowest rank of day-laborers, and 
upon his head he had placed a wig of matted, 
sandy hair, with deep side-whiskers to match. 
He had soiled his hands and penciled dingy lines 
upon his face ; and, as he now stood, even Adam 
Halford could not have discovered a single trace 
of the likeness of his confidential clerk. The 
father was equally well disguised, and together 
the two set forth, taking a Roxbury horse-car on 
Cornhill, and riding upon the platform. 

Arrived at the end of the rail, they left the 
car, and made their way to the Brookside, pro- 


86 


Tzvo of a Kind. 


ceeding directly to the dwelling of the gardener, 
whom they found at home. 

“We have come,” said Caspar, assuming a 
coarseness of speech, “to see if we can hire some 
men to go out to Kansas to work on a railroad.” 

“Ye can’t hire me,” replied Downey, emphati- 
cally. 

“We had not thought of such a thing,” said 
Caspar, with a smile ; “ but we were informed 
that there were two men at work here whose 
job with you was nearly at an end. We want to 
hire Americans if we can, because we can offer 
them inducements to settle out there.” 

Downey looked curiously at the garbs of the 
two men who thus proposed to offer big 
inducements in the way of settlement. Hugo 
noticed the look, and understood its mean- 
ing. 

“ I am doing an errand for my employer,” he 
said, “ and am myself just from the gravel-pit. 
He heard the names of the two men who were 
at work for you — ” 

“Sanders and Davis?” interrupted the gar- 
dener. 

“ Yes, those are the men.” 


Two of a Kind. 


87 


“Well, they are in the house at this moment, 
and you can see them for yourself. Come 
in.” 

The two Hugos followed Downey into the 
cot, where they were introduced to Eben San- 
ders and Seth Davis. The New Hampshire 
men listened to the proposition of the visit- 
ors, and respectfully declined to entertain the 
terms. 

“ But,” suggested Caspar, ‘‘ suppose we should 
have something better — something worth your 
while — where might we find you ?” 

“ ’Tain’t very likely you can have anything o’ 
the kind,” answered Eben Sanders, honestly; 
“ but you’ll find us here, if you want to see us, 
any time afore the snow flies.” 

And with this information, the visitors arose 
to depart. 

“ Don’t be too sure,” said Caspar, with a smile, 
as he stood at the door. “ There’s big pickings 
out in Kansas and Colorado. Men grow rich 
there in a year. But never mind now. If I 
hear of a better chance, and our employer has 
the bestowal of it, we may call again. If I can’t 


88 


Two of a Kind. 


come myself, my friend, Mr. Stepper, will 
come.” 

Going out from the gardener’s cot, the father 
proceeded to the highway, while the son went 
up to the stone cottage, where he contrived to 
call Lora to the door. He pretended that he 
had been sent by a neighbor, to see if John 
Downey could be hired for a few days, to work 
in a garden ; and the servant was able to answer 
him emphatically in the negative. 

Then the tramp ventured upon the sickness 
of the mistress, of which he had heard, and 
before he went away, he had learned that Madame 
Rachel was no better, and that three doctors 
had been there during the evening. She had 
had another fit, and for a time she had been 
given up as dead. 

When Caspar Hugo rejoined his father, he 
said : 

“ I think our work has commenced in earnest. 
Madame Rachel is near her end. You must 
stay here and establish communication with the 
gardener, and I must be informed of the verdict 
of the doctors. They have held a consultation 
this evening, and, of course, they know very 


On the Past's Brink, 


89 


nearly what the result is to be. If we make a 
false move at this point, we lose the game, dead 
sure. I must know in the morning how the 
matter stands. Will you see about it?” 

Alexander Hugo replied in the affirmative. 

“ And at the same time,” said Caspar, “ you can 
be looking out for the two witnesses.” 

I won’t lose sight of them,” said Alexan- 
der. 

Without further remark, except to arrange for 
further intercommunication, the two separated — 
one to return to the city, and the other to lie in 
wait for information. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ON THE past’s BRINK. 

It was. well into the evening, and Madamt 
Rachel had sunk into a quiet slumber after the 
departure of the doctors, who had been with her 
— three of them — for the purpose of consultation 
Her own physician had promised that he would 


90 


On the Past's Brink, 


* 

call again in the morning. The result of the con- 
ference had not been told to her, but she had 
fancied she knew it well enough. After they had 
gone she slept ; and when she awoke it was well 
into the night. 

‘‘ The doctor said, if you awoke, I was to give 
you the cordial.” 

It was Christine who spoke, and she stood by 
the bedside with a glass in her hand. 

“ The doctor said it would revive you.” 

“ Did he say that ?” demanded Rachel, earn- 
estly. She spoke as though her thoughts had 
taken a new turn. “ Will it give me strength?” 

“ He said so.” 

“ Then let me have it — fill the glass, Christine. 
I have that to say to you which may require 
renewed strength.” 

Rachel drank the cordial, and she knew from 
its taste that it had been prescribed only as a 
generous stimulant — gentle in its influence of 
soothing, and generous in its pervading warmth. 

“ Will you rest now, mamma?” 

“ No, my child. I have something to say — I 
have a story to tell you. Hush ! it will be better 
for me to speak now. It will not harm me. 


On the Past's Brink, 


91 


Raise my pillows so that I can look easily upon 
you.” 

With gentle touch, Christine arranged the 
pillows, after which she took a seat so that the 
woman could look easily into her face. Rachel 
had, on several occasions, intimated that she had 
a story to tell, but had heretofore shrunk from the 
task from a disinclination to give voice to the 
by-gone memories. She had thought much of 
the matter, and had resolved that she must speak 
soon, if ever. 

“ Christine,” she said, after she had regarded 
her adopted daughter for a time in silence, “ I am 
going to tell you the story of my life. It is right 
that you should know why I have lived as I have, 
and why my heart remained for so many years 
closed up. I had thought to write it down, and 
leave it for you to read after I had gone ; but 
when I took my pen for that purpose, I found 
myself unable. But I can speak it to you, 
darling. You are so near to me — so dear and so 
precious— that I should not die content if you 
were left in ignorance of my life-story.” 

Christine would have interfered at this point, 
fearing that her guardian’s strength was not equal 


92 


On the Past's Brink. 


to the task, but the latter, divining her purpose, 
smilingly said : 

“ It will do me good to speak. I shall feel 
better after the story is told.” 

Christine drew nearer to the side of her foster- 
mother, and took one of her thin hands and 
pressed it to her lips. 

“ Bless you, darling ! May a kind Providence 
shield you from sorrow always !” 

As she spoke, Rachel raised her left hand to 
the maiden’s head and smoothed back the shim- 
mering waves, and finally she said : 

Listen to me, darling. I have been thinking 
of the story — I have told it over to mysell 
many, times — and I shall tell you all that you 
need to know. It will not fatigue me. Do 
not worry.” 


Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth. 


93 


CHAPTER IX. 

HOW SHARPER THAN A SERPENT’S TOOTH. 

“ I was born in New Orleans,” Madame St. 
Clair began, “and at the age of fourteen was 
left an orphan in charge of a maiden aunt. My 
family name was Arnot. My father left a small 
property, the bulk of which my aunt devoted to 
my education. When I was seventeen years of 
age, I became acquainted with Victor St. Clair, 
a French refugee, of middle-age, and of immense 
wealth. He had sought refuge in America, and 
had landed in New Orleans with no friend save 
a faithful servant. By chance he found a home 
beneath my aunt’s roof, and it fell to my lot to 
afford him occasional entertainment. He was a 
true-hearted, generous man, and in time he pro- 
posed to make me his wife. I loved him and we 
were married. 

“We had been married about four months, 
when my husband’s sister, named Theresa, came 
over from France. She came in company with 


94 Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth, 


a man named Jasper Murdoch, whom, immedi- 
ately upon her arrival, she married. He was 
mate of a ship, and was dissolute and unprinci- 
pled. I afterward learned that Theresa had 
made this man’s acquaintance two years before, 
and that Victor had endeavored to draw her 
away from him; but she had been headstrong, 
and would not listen. When my husband 
knew that his sister was in New Orleans, he 
sought her out ; but she was not inclined to be 
friendly. Victor would not associate with her 
husband ; and she, with a spirit which I can 
easily understand, would not accept a friendship 
which she might not share with the man whose 
name she had taken. So an estrangement came 
between brother and sister ; and I do not think 
Victor was to blame. He would have helped his 
sister with half his fortune, but he would not 
put money into the hands of her dissolute hus- 
band. 

At the end of a year — when I was eighteen — a 
child was born to us. It was a daughter, and 
we called it Pauline. The infant was drawing 
us closer and closer together, and I was growing 
strong and well again, when my husband fell 


Sharp as a Serpents Tooth, 


95 


sick and died. By his will, he left his whole 
large property to me, for me to dispose of it as I 
pleased. And thus, at the age of eighteen, I was 
left a widow, with an infant child, and a fortune 
larger than I could properly compute ; but my 
banker was an honest man, and my estate was in 
safe hands. 

‘^You can imagine, my darling, that when I 
had put off my mourning I had offers for my 
hand ; but I was not in the mood to listen. None 
proposed for whom I could care. My little 
Pauline had grown to be a beautiful child, and 
in her instruction I found plenty of occupation. 

“ When Pauline was fifteen, 1 allowed her to go 
to Havana with some Sisters of the Order of St. 
Mary, there to finish her education. When Paul- 
ine had been gone a year, I became acquainted 
with a French officer named Paul Cambray. 
He called upon me first to look at some papers 
which my husband had left ; and afterward he 
called, because I had informed him that he 
would be welcome at any time. He was four- 
and-thirty years of age, and was one of the hand- 
somest men I had ever seen. Moreover, he pos- 
sessed that peculiar electric vitality which 


g6 Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth. 


attracts while it charms and fascinates. Remem- 
ber, he was of my own age. And I may tell 
you one thing more ; my beauty had not faded. 
At the age of thirty -four, men called me a queen. 
I had lived temperately, and my life had been 
pleasant, so that no storms had come to beat 
upon me. 

“ In short, my darling, I loved Paul Cambray ; 
and, for the first time in my life, I knew what it 
was to love with that all-pervading, enrapturing 
love which changes with its magic touch the 
whole current of being. I loved with my whole 
soul and strength, and when Paul finally con- 
fessed his own love, and asked me to be his wife, 
I sank upon his bosom in an ecstasy of happiness. 

“ Of course, I could not be married while 
Pauline was away, and I sent for her to come 
home. It was early spring when she arrived 
from Cuba, and when I saw her, I thought my 
eyes had never rested upon anything half so 
beautiful. Remember, the months had been 
passing, and Pauline was now seventeen, just the 
age at which I had married Victor St. Clair. 
But I did not think of that. I saw her as my 
child, and I presented her to Paul as one who 


Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth. 


97 


was to be our child. I observed that her dazzl- 
ing beauty startled him, and I did not wonder. 
Our home assumed new charms. Pauline sang 
like a seraph, and her performance upon the lute 
and upon the harpsichord was wonderful. Paul 
Cambray came oftener to our house than before ; 
and at length I knew that he came without see- 
ing me. 1 — I — ” 

Not now, not now,” whispered Christine, 
bending over and kissing Rachel’s cheek. 

“Yes, yes, darling! I must tell it now or 
never. Give me more of the cordial.” 

The cordial was poured out, and when Rachel 
had drunk it she became more composed. 

“ I have but little more to tell, darling; and I 
know that you see the end. Paul Cambray had 
turned his love from me to my daughter. And 
she — she — loved him so well that she eloped 
with him. Aye ; I awoke to find myself bereft 
of lover and of child at a single blow. They fled 
from my house, and fled from New Orleans ; and 
ere long afterward, I received a letter from 
Pauline, dated at St. Gabriel, telling me that she 
had married Paul Cambray, and asking my for- 
giveness. I could forgive my child ; but I could 


98 Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth, 


not forgive him. I wrote so to her. I told her 
if she would leave the man who had so basely 
deceived me, I would take her to my bosom and 
forget and forgive ; but I would never see Paul 
Cambray more. She answered me that she 
would not leave her husband, and so she bade 
me farewell. The iron had entered my soul, and 
I was broken in heart and in spirit. I grew sud- 
denly old and pale, and life had become a 
burden. I cannot tell you how I suffered. I 
only wonder that I lived. Years subsequently 
I learned that Paul Cambray had died of fever 
contracted in New Orleans. After that, I sought 
for Pauline, but I could not find her. When I 
knew that her husband was dead my heart soft- 
ened. I would have taken her back. But it was 
not to be. She died, and made no sign 

“Died?” repeated Christine. 

“ It must have been so,” returned Rachel. 
“ Had she been living, I should have found some 
trace of her ; but none such was ever found. 
And so, a new calamity befell me, and the cur- 
rent of my life flowed in a channel of deepest 
melancholy. The home of my youth had lost its 
charms, and all its associations had become pain- 


Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth, 


99 


ful ; and after a time, I left my Southern home 
and came hither.” 

Christine bent forward, and laid her head upon 
the pillow, and Rachel Avound her arm about the 
girl’s form, and drew it lovingly to her. After a 
time, Christine drew back, and Rachel again 
slept — slept until the day broke. 

Early in the day, the doctor came, and spent 
an hour with his patient. When he left, Chris- 
tine followed him to the outer door, where she 
asked him to tell her the truth. 

“ Make her as comfortable as you can,” the 
physican replied, “ and satisfy every whim. Her 
life is ebbing fast.” 

‘‘Do you mean that she is dying?” asked the 
maiden with a startled cry. 

“ Do you understand what death is to a per- 
son of her age ?” said the doctor, professionally. 
“Do you realize that it is the gradual stopping 
of a machine that is worn out? Madame Rachel 
is dying, and yet the vital spark may remain at 
her heart for hours — perhaps for days — and she 
may sink before this sun. I can only assure you 
that she will pass away very quietly and peace- 


lOO Sharp as a Serpenfs Tooth, 


fully — that is, if you keep from her all disturbing 
influences.” 

Not more than an hour had elapsed after the 
departure of the doctor when Rachel asked that 
her servants might come to her bedside. She 
meant the faithful ones who had known no 
other service. Christine went out and summoned 
them, and they came. Tom leaned heavily upon 
his orange-wood staff ; Hagar was supported by 
Lora. 

Rachel was bolstered up to a sitting position, 
and she looked better than she had looked for 
many days. She took each of the servants by 
the hand, and pressed it warmly — pressed it 
with warm emotion, though her own hand was 
strangely cold. 

“ My children,” she said, “ I feel better, and it 
is your kindness that has made me so peaceful 
and happy. I am going to sleep ; and I wanted 
to see you before I slept. The thought was 
with me, arid I might forget it if I let it be to 
another time. I wanted to bless you, and tell 
you how much I love you. I wanted to tell you 
all how happy I am in the faith that this poor 
life is but the beginning of an eternal life. Our 


Sharp as a Serpenfs Tooth, 


lOI 


home is in the better world beyond the vale, 
where God the Father is, and where the Blessed 
Saviour reigns forevermore. If I should go 
before you, I will prepare the way. God be 
merciful to you ever !” 

Sobbing like children indeed, the faithful 
servants turned from the room ; and when they 
had gone, Rachel put forth her hand to Chris- 
tine. 

“ Lower my pillows, darling.” 

Gently and soothingly the loving girl 
obeyedi 

“ Now rest by my side, Christine. Let me 
take your hand. 1 am going to sleep.” 

Presently she drew her hand away and reached 
upward, as though she would grasp something 
in the space above her which to Christine seemed 
empty. A moment so, and then she gave her 
hand back to the watcher. 

A little while, and a change came over the 
aged face. The eyes, looking upward, grew 
preternaturally bright, and the features were 
bathed as in a light supernal. Her lips moved, 
and she cried out, in ecstatic tones: 


102 


Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth, 


“Victor! — my husband! Oh, after all these 
years !” 

And thus speaking, her eyes closed, and she 
sank to her last rest. Christine marked the 
change — that awful change which leaves the 
loved one’s face a blank — the change that 
marks the mysterious transit between the two 
worlds ! 

At first Christine was stunned by the blow. 
From out the dread space of the Unseen, it 
seemed as though a still greater calamity was to 
fall upon her. At the moment when she knew 
that her best friend was gone from her, she 
wished that she, too, might lie down in the same 
mystic sleep. The first impulse of her startled 
imagination was that in losing her foster-mother 
she had lost the only shield that stood between 
herself and utter despair. And this was not a 
sudden phantasy. She had dreamed often of 
such a thing — had dreamed, both sleeping and 
waking, that in the dim possibilities of life were 
dread evils which the presence of Rachel St. 
Clair could alone ward off. But, by and by, she 
aroused herself to a sense of the necessities of 
the present situation, and having reverently 


Murder Most Foul, 


103 


crossed the hands of the sleeper upon the pulse- 
less bosom, and imprinted a kiss upon the marble 
brow, she went forth to tell the servants what 
had happened. 


CHAPTER X. 

MURDER MOST FOUL. 

On the self-same morning of the events last 
recorded, Caspar Hugo reached the office on 
Court street at an early hour, and was ere long 
joined by Mr. Halford. 

“You are early this morning, sir,” remarked 
the clerk, as his employer took his seat. 

“ Yes,” replied the attorney. “ I have business 
on my hands that makes me anxious. I am not 
satisfied touching the title of the old Battery- 
march estate. As you are aware, we find by the 
records that the original assignor reserved a par- 
tial right to the property until certain conditions 
had been 'fulfilled. I have no doubt that those 
conditions were fulfilled long ago, and, in all 


04 


Murder Most FouL 


possibility, the assignor gave a release of his 
claim ; but said release is nowhere on record. I 
have no great fear of trouble, but still these 
things fret me. I like to see my work intact. I 
don’t like to find a link missing in my chain.” 

In this case,” suggested Caspar, who under- 
stood the point at issue, I think the chain is 
simply a link short. I doubt if the missing link 
is needed for strength, though for perfectness of 
proportions it might be well to have it in.” 

“ I think,” said Halford, “ that, for myself, the 
absence of the release from the record would 
not prevent me from accepting a deed from the 
present proprietor. However, I can explain the 
matter to my client, and he can do as he pleases. 
And there is another thing that has kept me 
anxious. In fact, it has kept me awake half the 
night.” 

The clerk looked up, but ventured no spoken 
question. 

“ I allude,” pursued the old man, after a pause, 
“ to Madame Rachel St. Clair. I must see her 
again while her mind is clear.” 

“ Anything particular ?” queried Hugo. 

“Yes. She spoke, not long since, of transfer- 


Murder Most Foul. 


105 


ring some real estate in New Orleans. I might 
like to obtain her wishes in that respect for the 
guidance of Miss Christine.” 

“Touching that matter,” ventured Caspar, 
with deference, “ I think Miss Christine had bet- 
ter rely solely upon your judgment. If her 
appearance does not belie her, she will look to 
you for counsel and guidance.” 

“ Perhaps you are right, Hugo,” returned the 
old lawyer, evidently pleased with the implied 
flattery. “ And yet I would like to hear from the 
lady. She was very low yesterday. She must 
not sink without my seeing her.” 

At this juncture the door of the office was 
opened, and a boy looked in and inquired for Mr. 
Hugo. Caspar answered to the call, and received 
a folded note from the hand of the messenger, 
and when he had opened the missive and glanced 
his eyes over the contents, he said to the lad : 

“ If you see the man who gave you this, tell 
him that I shall not be able to accompany him. 
I have too much business on hand. He may 
give my ticket to some one else.” 

The boy departed, and Caspar resumed his 
seat, remarking, as he did so; 


io6 


Murder Most Foul, 


1 am free to admit that I do not care for these 
Italian operas. The music is entirely overshad- 
owed by the utter chaos of song.” 

“ I never heard one in my life,” said Halford. 

“ I have been inflicted several times,” smiled 
Caspar, in response ; but I don’t choose to be 
inflicted to-night. A friend sends me word that 
a ticket is at my disposal,” 

“ No business of mine need interfere,” said the 
attorney. 

“ Thank you, sir ; but I am at present deep in 
Sallust and Cicero, preparatory to taking up 
Wheaton ; and I am deeply interested.” 

You are right, Caspar. I am pleased to see 
you thus sensible. He who would become a 
master of law must commence at the beginning. 
Let me also recommend to you Demosthenes and 
Euripides. 1 think Demosthenes’ oration on the 
‘ Crown,’ the grandest effort of oratory extant. I 
know it will please you.” 

“ Much better than the opera, I am sure,” 
returned Caspar. 

And as he spoke he tore the note which the boy 
had brought into very small pieces, and rolled 
them up in his hand. 


Murder Most Foul. 


107 


And now, could those bits of paper have been 
re-arranged so as to present the same surface 
which had first' appeared to the eyes of Caspar 
Hugo, they would give us the following: 

Thursday, 8 o’clock a. m. 

“ I have just seen the doctor as he came from 
Madame Rachel’s chamber. He says the woman 
is dying. A. H.” 

X^aspar rolled the bits of paper into a pellet, 
and threw the pellet into the waste-basket. 

“ So,” said he, “ we dispose of the opera. And 
now, sir, suppose I take a run out to Roxbury, 
and find out how our lady is. I would like much 
to call upon a friend in that neighborhood, and 
may thus combine pleasure with business.” 

Halford’s answer was prompt : 

“ I wish you would do so, Caspar. And mean- 
time I must go out to the Middlesex registry and 
look up the titles to our Medford property. See 
the doctor if you can. He was to call upon 
madame this morning. His opinion will be more 
reliable then reports of the household.” 

Caspar promised that he would make careful 


io8 


Murder Most FouL 


inquiry ; and without further delay he left the 
office, and immediately afterward Mr. Halford 
proceeded to Bowdoin Square, and took a car 
for Cambridge. 

It was near ten o’clock when Caspar Hugo 
reached the Brookside,and, at a place previously 
appointed, he met his father. 

“ I received your note,” he said, “ and have 
now come for further information.” 

"‘And you have come just in time, or I am 
greatly mistaken,” returned Alexander. “ I have 
just observed a commotion at the cottage. You 
had better go yourself and investigate. It will 
not do for me to be seen up there in this rig.” 

“You are right,” said Caspar. “Wait you 
l^ere till I come back.” 

The son was gone but a short time, and when 
he returned, he was in a quiver of excitement. 

“She is dead!” 

“ Are you sure ?” 

“ Yes ; I found out without being seen.” 

“Then,” said Alexander, thoughtfully, “that 
means work.” 

“We have no time to lose. If I will look to 
the lawyer, will you look to the two witnesses ?” 


Murder Most Foul. 


109 


The elder man paused and reflected. 

“It must not only be done quietly/' he at 
length said; “ but no trace of the work must be 
left. They must be missing, and no sign of their 
fate be made manifest.” 

“ Can you not manage it ?” 

“ I must find help.” 

“ Can you find men who may be trusted ?” 

“ I can find ready men ; and since, when the 
work is done, they will be equally implicated 
with myself, we need not fear their blabbing.” 

“ Then you will take them upon your hands 

“ Yes.” 

Caspar Hugo believed that when his father 
undertook a work to the accomplishment of 
which his own wit and daring were alone neces- 
sary, the same might be considered as safely pro- 
vided for; and having arranged for a future 
meeting, the two separated, both to return to the 
city, though by different routes. 

Caspar stopped at a fruit stall on Washington 
street, and purchased a dozen fine peaches, 
which he took away in a paper bag. Thence 
he went directly to his chambers in the out-of- 
the-way alley, where he proceeded to fix his 


I lO 


Murder Most FouL 


fruit for the purpose it was designed to accom- 
plish. 

Caspar Hugo had not suffered himself to 
reach the present emergency without prepara- 
tion. Within a drawer of a brass-bound casket 
lay a tiny pasteboard box. Within this box was 
a folded paper. Within this paper was a gray- 
ish powder, which had been placed there a 
month before. Caspar knew, when he held the 
seemingly insignificant parcel in his hand, that 
he held an agent swift and terrible — a power 
beyond the reach of human skill to combat. 
Having selected two of his peaches, he pro- 
ceeded, with a small bit of wire, to puncture them 
deeply, and then to inject minute quantities of 
the powder. Having done this, he marked the 
fruit thus manipulated, and put it back into the 
bag, after which he descended from his cham- 
bers, and set forth on his return to the office. 

It was almost one o’clock when Caspar struck 
into Court street from Washington, having come 
up through Dock Square ; and as he did so, he 
saw Mr. Halford coming in from the opposite 
direction. This he regarded as particularly for- 
tunate. He waited until his employer had gone 


Murder Most Foul. 


1 1 1 


up into the office, and immediately after he fol- 
lowed. 

“ Ah ! You have returned.'' The clerk spoke 
cheerily, and removed his hat before he sat 
down. 

“Yes, yes. I had no trouble at Cambridge. 
Have you heard from Madame Rachel ?" 

“ I have been out there, sir, and am happy to 
say that she is improving." 

“ Improving?" . 

“ She is reviving from her recent prostration, 
and the doctor informs me that she is likely to 
live for some time." 

“ I am glad of that — very glad. There are a 
few items of her business in the final arrange- 
ment of which it were well that she should exer- 
cise supervision. You can copy the will this 
afternoon, and this evening, or to-morrow morn- 
ing, I will take the original draft back to her." 

Caspar nodded, and then opened the paper 
bag and took out a peach. He knew that the 
old lawyer was fond of peaches, so he selected 
two of the fairest-looking and offered them, say- 
ing, as he did so : 

“ They are the finest peaches I have seen this 


I 12 


Murder Most FouL 


year. They will revive you after your walk. 
Upon my soul, I think I could live upon such 
fruit. I sometimes think that the peach must 
have been the ambrosia of Olympus.” 

“ A pleasant fancy, certainly,” nodded the 
attorney, as he took the proffered fruit. “ Dick 
Swiveller was not a wild conception. Only a 
few evenings since, I heard one of our staid old 
judges of the Superior Court, as he sipped a 
glass of Malmsey port, affirm, with judicial grav- 
ity, that such must have been the nectar which 
Jupiter sipped. Pleasant fancies — pleasant fan- 
cies. Ah, my boy, this life of ours here below 
would be darker than it is if we had not a few 
fancies brighter than surrounding realities. An 
excellent peach, I declare ! only I prefer those 
with not so much of the bitter-almond taste.” 

“ In these free-stones I have noticed that the 
flavor of the seed is more pungent and pervad- 
ing than in those where the meat clings to the 
stone, though it would be reasonable to suppose 
that the opposite would be the case. However, 
I rather prefer these. I do not dislike the flavor 
of the bitter-almond.” 

“ Nor do I,” said Halford, as he bit the second 


Murder Most FouL 


peach ; and when he had finished it, Caspar 
offered him more ; but he felt that he had eaten 
enough. 

“ I think,” said the clerk, putting aside the 
paper bag, “ that I will run down to the post- 
office. The noon mail is distributed by this 
time.” 

The attorney nodded assent, and Caspar went 
out, carefully closing the door behind him. He 
was gone not more than fifteen minutes, and on 
his return he found Mr. Halford upon the floor 
in convulsions. 

He made sure that the sufferer was beyond 
the power of speech, and then, having dashed a 
pot of water over the head and shoulders, and 
stripped open the tie and shirt-bosom, he 
hastened out and called a cab from Court 
square, and also called a policeman to come to 
his assistance. 

They found the lawyer still upon the floor, 
and only slight spasms of the principal muscles 
marked the presence of vitality. Caspar told his 
story hurriedly, but very clearly : Mr. Halford 
had been out to Cambridge, and had only 
returned a short time before. 


Murder Most Foul. 


114 

“ Not more than twenty minutes ago — or half 
an-hour, at most — he sent me to the post-office ; 
and when I went away I left him apparently as 
well as ever. I came back in fifteen minutes, 
and found him upon the floor in convulsions. 
He spoke but a single coherent sentence, and 
that was to request that I would get a cab and 
carry him home.” 

“ It is a fit,” said the policeman, with profes- 
sional dignity and assurance. 

“ The sooner we get him home and call a physi- 
cian the better,” suggested Caspar. 

The officer assented to this, and straightway 
the insensible man was borne down to the cab, 
and, at Caspar’s request, he, the officer, accom- 
panied him to the lawyer’s residence. 

When they took their burden into the house 
they bore an inert and lifeless form. A physi- 
cian was called, but he could do nothing. 

In this connection we would only remark 
further, that Mr. Halford had on several occa- 
sions during the past year been attacked by ver- 
tigo, for which he had called medical aid. On 
the present occasion, the physician, after listen- 
ing to the story which the clerk had to tell. 


Murder Most Foul, 


1^5 

decided that death had resulted from apoplexy. 
It was to him a plain case. He did not deem it 
even necessary to make any particular local 
examination. The man might have died on the 
way home, while in the hands of his friends, or 
he might have died after he reached his home. 
Caspar was sure there was life apparent when 
they took him from the cab. The policeman 
could not dispute it ; and, in the end, all uncon- 
scious of evil, the physician gave a certificate of 
the case as he understood it. 

Leaving the family to care for the lifeless 
body, Caspar Hugo returned to the office, where 
his first movement was to secure the will of 
Rachel St. Clair. This he did quickly, and 
placed the document in his breast-pocket. Then 
he re-locked the safe and went to a neighboring 
office, where he related what had occurred, and 
asked that he might have assistance in caring for 
the business. 

Of course,” said he, a proper commission 
will be appointed to take charge of his affairs ; 
but as he had much important matter on hand, I 
do not care to assume the entire responsibility 
of guarding it.” 


Murder Most Foul. 


1 16 

A lawyer who had been long a friend and 
companion of the deceased went in with the dis- 
tressed clerk, and promised to remain, and ren- 
der such assistance as might be needed, until 
matters could be properly arranged. 

When evening had come, Caspar went to his 
lodgings and remained there until ten o’clock. 
Then he went out and tried a game of billiards, 
but his hand was not steady and he gave it up. 
He then sought a gambling-room, where he 
drank two or three glasses of whiskey, and made 
petty ventures at a faro-bank. He played care- 
fully, from instinct, and as there were several 
drunken, reckless players at the board, whom the 
dealer had marked as his especial victims, he was 
allowed to win. At eleven o’clock he returned 
to his chambers, where he sat up until midnight, 
at which time he swallowed more whiskey, and 
then threw himself upon a lounge, where he soon 
fell into a doze. 

It was past three o’clock in the morning when 
Caspar was aroused by the coming of his father, 
whose entrance into the house and ascent of the 
stairs had been noiseless. Alexander was worn 
and weary, and he looked dragged and hollow- 


Murder Most Foul. 


117 

eyed. He drank freely from the whiskey-bottle, 
and then sat down and lit a pipe. 

“ What have you done?” asked Caspar, in a 
whisper. 

“ What have you done ?” was Alexander’s re- 
sponse. 

“ Adam Halford is dead, and the will is in my 
possession.” 

“ Good ! And now allow me to say that the 
two men whose names are upon that instrument 
as witnesses are also dead !” 

How did you do it ?” asked the son, with 
eager interest. “ Are your tracks covered ?” 

“ Are yours covered ?” 

“ Yes, entirely. A respectable physician gives 
testimony that my man died of apoplexy.” 

“ And no physician under the sun will ever be 
called upon to say of what my man died, ” said 
the father, with a slap of the hand upon his knee. 

I’ll tell you how it was done : I hired two men 
to help me — men who are used to the business, 
and whose implication is a saving clause. We 
went to the Brookside late in the evening, and I 
contrived to call Sanders and Davis out into the 
grove. As I engaged their attention, my two 


ii8 


Murder Most FouL 


pals slipped up and gave them a pair of settlers 
upon the head from behind. We strangled them 
where they were, and then took their bodies in a 
covered wagon, and drove over to the seashore. 
There we secured our horse in a safe hiding- 
place, and took a boat which we had prepared 
beforehand, and rowed out into the channel, 
where two bits of strong rope, at one end of 
which was a dead man and at the other an iron 
anchor, were thrown overboard. What do you 
think of it ?” 

“ You weren’t seen?” 

“ I can swear we were not.” 

Then we have only to destroy this will, and 
our work is done.” 

The will was produced and opened ; and when 
Alexander Hugo had made himself sure of its 
identity, he stood back and saw Caspar commit 
it to the flame of the candle. It was consumed 
utterly, and the ashes were swept up and thrown 
into the grate, after which, father and son turned 
once more to the whiskey-bottle. 


Ihe Administrator. 


119 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE ADMINISTRATOR. 

On the morning following the events last 
recorded, Christine, when she went to the cham- 
ber where the mortal remains of her foster- 
mother lay, found Lora asleep in her chair. The 
woman had worn herself asleep with weeping. 
Upon raising the curtains of the bed, she found 
old Tom kneeling there, with his head half-buried 
in the clothing of the couch. She touched him, 
and spoke his name, but he did not answer. She 
looked more closely, and presently moved back 
with reverent awe. The faithful old servant had 
only been living that he might bear his mistress 
company. He had accompanied her through 
life, and now he had gone to join her beyond the 
vale. Christine could not pity him. Rather she 
felt that the refuge was a blessed one. 

Hagar, when this double stroke fell upon her, 
sank beneath it. She survived to see the bodies 
of her beloved mistress and old Tom borne away 


I 20 


The Administrator, 


toward the place of burial, and then she took to 
her bed, and ere long slept with them. 

Paul Waybrook was at home, having gradu- 
ated with honor at his college, and his presence 
served greatly to sustain and cheer Christine. 
They had heard of the death of Mr. Halford, 
but not until after the funeral did they take any 
steps toward looking into the condition of the 
business which Madame Rachel had intrusted to 
his care. Mr. Waybrook, senior, considering 
that he had an interest in the matter, called at 
the office on Court street, where he found Cas- 
par Hug^ with a gentleman who had been 
appointed as custodian for the time. Mr. Way- 
brook stated that, as a friend and neighbor of 
Rachel St. Clair, and in behalf of those who 
were interested, he had called for information 
concerning such affairs connected with the 
Brookside estate and its mistress as might have 
been lodged in Mr. Halford’s hands. 

Really, sir,” was Hugo’s reply to his general 
query, delivered with obsequious frankness, '‘I 
should be happy to inform you upon all the par- 
ticulars involved in the case ; but the budget has 
not yet been opened,” 


ADAM HALFORD'IS DEAD, AND THE WILL IS IN MY POSSESSION.”— /See Page 117 . 



I 






h- ■* r • ' ^ • • 


>1 


The Ad77tinistrator. 


121 


“ Do you know whom Madame St. Clair had 
selected as her executor ?’' 

“ I do not, sir.” 

You know that she had designated one?” 

“ She may have done so, sir. I am not 
informed, however.” 

“ But she made a will?” 

“ If she did, it will probably be found with 
other papers of hers which Mr. Halford had in 
keeping.” 

“You were Halford’s confidential clerk. 
What was the object of your visit with your 
master to the Brookside cottage shortly before 
Madame Rachel’s death ?” 

Not a quiver betrayed the internal emotion 
caused by this direct question ; and even the 
emotion itself was brief. Hugo had set himself 
with firm resolve to sustaining the position he 
had assumed. 

“ You will excuse me,” he answered, with a 
low bow. “ You said truly when you said that 1 
was a confidential clerk. As such, I may not 
break our rule of circumspection.” 

“ But,” persisted Way brook, “you can tell me 
if you know anything of a will,” 


122 


The Administrator . 


“ I may tell you, sir, that on the occasion to 
which you refer, two wills were destroyed by 
Madame Rachel’s order, and in her presence.” 

“ Destroyed f 

'' Yes, sir.” 

“ Two of them ?” 

- Two.” 

“ Were they old wills?” 

‘‘One of them was as old as I am, and the 
other was far from being new.” 

“ Do you know anything of a new will ?” 

“Nothing.” 

Mr. Waybrook did not choose to hold any 
further conversation with the clerk. He went 
out and called on a legal friend, who went with 
him to the probate office. The few questions 
propounded by the registrar, who chanced to 
be the officer in attendance, sent cold chills 
through the frame of the honorable gentleman. 

“ Do I understand,” said the registrar, after 
Waybrook had stated the case, “ that Madame 
St. Clair has left no representative of her own 
blood — no kin of any degree ?” 

“ I don’t suppose,” answered the merchant, 


The Administrator, 


123 


hesitatingly, “ that this adopted child could be 
called a relative ?” 

“ I am very confident,” answered the officer, 
“ that there has been no legal adoption. Such 
an adoption would have been entered at this 
office, and it could not have been done without 
my knowledge. I am not cognizant of any such 
formality.” 

“But,” suggested Waybrook, “the girl in 
question has lived with Rachel St. Clair, and has 
borne her name, and has been held as a child of 
her own from infancy.” 

“ But,” put in the registrar, with cruel direct- 
ness, “ the child was a foundling and of no kin ?” 

Mr. Waybrook could only nod in response. 

“ In which case,” pursued the officer, “ the 
girl’s claim would be good for nothing in law, 
though a humane court, with sufficient evidence 
to warrant it, might aid her materially. Our 
probate judge is a man of large heart, sir, and 
will do what is just and right. But, my dear 
sir, would it not be well to make a thorough 
examination of madame’s papers before you take 
any other steps ?” 

“That is what I would like to do, sir; but the 


124 


The Administrator, 


papers — in fact, the whole business of the lady — 
were in the hands of Mr. Halford, who is also 
deceased ; and there seems to be difficulty in 
getting at his private affairs without an official 
warrant.” 

If no responsible heirs have appeared, there 
must at least be creditors.” 

None that I know of. Madame Rachel con- 
tracted no debts.” 

“ That can hardly be,” said the registrar, 
dubiously. At all events,” he added, with 
decision, “ I have never yet met with a case 
where a person had shuffled off this mortal coil, 
entirely free from debt. There are servants, 
doctors, undertakers — ” 

‘"Ah!” interrupted Waybrook, raising his 
hand, “ I had forgotten. Of course. Doctor Ark- 
wright must be a creditor, or, at all events, he 
can appear as one.” 

“ I should suppose so, if he was the attending 
physician ?” 

“ He was ” 

“Then, my dear sir, the business is simple. 
Let Doctor Arkwright apply for administration 
upon the estate, and the court will gi'ant letters. 


The Admmistrator, 125 

Very likely the public administrator will take 
the matter in hand.” 

With this information, Mr. Way brook left the 
office, and sought Doctor William Arkwright, 
who had been for years madame’s physician. 
The doctor, when he had been made to under- 
stand the situation of affairs, promised that he 
would attend to the business at once, and on that 
very day he made the necessary application at 
the Court of Probate ; and, after due examina- 
tion, the public administrator was directed to 
investigate. 

Thus, a competent authority appeared at the 
office of the deceased attorney, and demanded 
possession of all documents and papers apper- 
taining to the estate of the late Rachel St. Clair. 
Caspar Hugo was in his most affable and accom- 
modating mood, and gave himself wholly and 
cheerfully to the work required at his hands. 
He brought forth from the safe the drawer which 
contained the documents in question. Some 
were of parchment and some of paper; some 
were comparatively new, some older and some 
very old. There were title-deeds of real-estate ; 
certificates of stocks, bonds and notes and mort- 


126 


The Administrator , 


gages, and various other matters, all valuable, 
and all clearly classed available. The Honorable 
Nathan Way brook was himself surprised, and 
the administrator was inclined to doubt the 
evidence of the documentary mass. 

“I had no idea,’' said Dr. Arkwright, “that 
she held such possession. What is your estimate, 
young man?” 

Caspar, to whom the question was put, re- 
flected a moment, and then replied : 

“ With her property here and her property in 
New Orleans, it is safe to say that it will reach 
two millions.” 

Mr. Waybrook gasped for breath. 

“ There must be a will,” he said. 

“ It is not among these papers,” asserted the 
administrator. 

The clerk was questioned, and he gave the 
same information which he had previously given 
to Mr. Waybrook. He told of the destruction 
of the two old wills, but he told nothing of the 
making of a new one. 

“I am sure,” said Waybrook, “that Madame 
St. Clair had planned the making of a new and 


The Admmistrator, 


127 


final will. Doctor Arkwright, did she never 
speak of it in your hearing ?” 

“ She certainly gave me to understand,” replied 
the doctor, that such was her purpose ; and I 
supposed that she had accomplished it. She told 
me she was going to send for her lawyer ; and 
I know that he visited her — and this young gen- 
tleman accompanied him. It has been my impres- 
sion, from words which she dropped on the fol- 
lowing day, that she made a will on that occa- 
sion. Still, she did not distinctly say so. She 
was very weak, and I did not urge conversation 
upon her. She told me, however, that she had 
made a satisfactory arrangement of her business.” 

“ Perhaps, gentlemen,” said Caspar, upon whom 
all eyes had become turned, I can afford you a 
little explanation. At any rate, 1 will give you 
what light I have. I think at the time of which 
Doctor Arkwright has spoken, Rachel St. Clair 
did have it in mind to make a new will ; but she 
was not fully decided. I accompanied Mr. Hal- 
ford, on that occasion, and was cognizant of most 
that passed. Mr. Halford had held in custody 
two wills, one bearing date, if I remember rightly, 
in 1839, other twelve years later. These 


128 


The Administrator, 


two wills we were ordered to destroy, and a 
servant, named Lora, was called in to witness that 
the act was freely the testator’s. After this, 
madame spoke of a new disposition of her prop- 
erty ; but she said there was trouble in her way. 
I remember her remarks the more clearly because 
I was impressed with a peculiar sense of awe 
and veneration in view of the wondrous span 
of years reached by her business relations. She 
said that in simple fact she had a right to dis- 
pose of her property as she pleased, but she was 
in doubt as to what might be perfectly just. 
As a maiden, she had been poor, and all her 
wealth she had inherited from her husband. 
That husband, at his death, left a sister in unfor- 
tunate circumstances. If the heirs of that sister 
were living, they should be considered. And 
then, she was not sure that there might not be 
heirs of her own body. She was in doubt and 
perplexity, and seemed so deeply moved by the 
situation, that Mr. Halford suggested a delay. 
He said he would write to New Orleans for 
information ; and he did so. I posted his letters 
that very evening.” 

“ But,” said the doctor, I understood from 


The Administrator . 


129 


Lora that two of the garden hands were sum- 
moned to madame’s chamber. For what were 
they wanted ?” 

“ They were summoned,” replied Caspar, 
promptly and composedly, “ by madame herself, 
in anticipation of the making of an instrument by 
which she proposed to transfer full powers of 
administration and absolute disposition to Mr. 
Halford. She fancied that she saw in that a way 
out of her difficulty. Should she die before 
information could be received from New Or- 
leans, her lawyer, in whom she had full confi- 
dence, would be in possession of her wishes, and 
could execute them at pleasure. But Mr. Hal- 
ford made her understand that such an arrange- 
ment could not be consummated, so the wit- 
nesses were not required. In fact, they were 
not called into the room, though I think the}^ 
were in waiting near at hand.” 

It was a curious case, but the investigators had 
no reason to doubt Caspar Hugo. He not only 
seemed entirely innocent of all intention to 
deceive or conceal, but they could conceive of 
no possible object which he could have in view 
through wrong-doing in the premises. 


The Administrator, 


130 

From the office of the attorney, the commis* 
sion adjourned to the Brookside Cottage, where 
every nook and corner in which Madame St. 
Clair could have laid a paper was searched ; and 
in the end it was decided that she had died intes- 
tate. It was toward evening when they had con- 
cluded their investigations, and as they were 
passing out through the hall, the administrator 
felt a hand upon his arm, and upon turning, he 
beheld the face of Christine — the most beautiful 
face he had ever seen — thus beautiful even under 
its shadows of care and sorrow. He had seen 
her, and questioned her, in the library, and had 
taken a deep and abiding interest in her ; and as 
he now met her earnest, beseeching gaze, he 
stopped, and allowed his companions to pass on. 

“ Mr. Adams,” she said, “ you will pardon me 
for asking you a question.” She spoke with an 
effort, and despairingly. 

“ Ask what you please, my dear friend. You 
may command me.” 

“ I would know, if no will is found, what is my 
exact position here?” 

The administrator hesitated, and Christine 
rightly interpreted his silence. 


T he A dm inistrator . 1 3 1 

“ Had I not been prepared to hear the worst, 
sir,” she said, “ I should not have asked you to 
tell me. You will serve me only by telling me 
the whole truth precisely as it is.” 

Then, my child,” answered the kind-hearted 
man, taking one of her hands in both his own as he 
spoke, “ in the eyes of the law, should other heirs 
appear, you would be no more than — than — ” 

“ One of the faithful servants.^” suggested the 
girl. 

Adams nodded the assent which he would not 
speak. 

You said, ^ other heirs.’ Can I be deemed an 
heir under any circumstances?” 

“ That is a question, my child, which I will 
not directly answer. If, as we suppose, your 
foster-mother has died intestate, and no heirs 
appear, I shall administer upon the estate under 
directions of the court, and I am sure you will 
be carefully and tenderly considered. You have 
more than the claims of a servant. It is in evi- 
dence 'that Madame St. Clair regarded you as 
her daughter, and we have no doubt that she 
intended tc leave you very much if not the bulk 
of her property. So, if your claim is alor.c 


132 


The Administrator, 


opposed by the commonwealth, the court may 
find good and sufficient reason for making ample 
provision in your behalf.” 

“ But,” whispered Christine, “ if heirs 
appear — ” 

“ And establish proof of kinship,” said Adams, 
“ there can be no alternative. But, even then, 
you might present a claim for services rendered. 
I should feel justified in allowing a sum that 
might make a snug little fortune in itself.” 

Christine thanked him, and suffered him . to 
pass on. 

Later in the evening, Paul Waybrook came 
over, and sat with Christine in the little draw- 
ing-room where they had passed their happiest 
hours of life. They talked over the whole mat- 
ter, and Christine related what the administrator 
had told her. 

“ But, my love,” cried Paul, you have no 
cause for alarm. Let the worst come, and what 
can it amount to ? Suppose you never get a 
penny of this property, have not I enough? Do 
you think I could love you less ? If you do, you 
do not know me.” 

“ But, Paul, there may be more of evil in this 


The Admmistrator. 


133 


than we can see. I know your love — how pure 
and noble it is ; but are you your own arbiter in 
this matter?’' 

Paul drew back quickly, and his face flushed. 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Forgive me, dear Paul. I do not fear with- 
out a cause. Your father did not regard me 
kindly this evening. All the others were friendly 
and sympathetic. He alone was cold and 
formal. At the last, he passed by me almost as 
though he did not know me. Have you seen 
him since?” 

“ No. He sent for me as I was coming out, 
but I was on my way hither, and did not answer 
the summons.” 


»34 


The Plot Progresses, 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE PLOT PROGRESSES. 

“ Don’t fear opposition from my father,” said 
Paul, in reply to Christine’s words. ‘‘ If my 
father — But he will not — he dare not.” 

After a pause, he arose and walked to and fro 
across the floor. He was evidently taking a full 
estimate of his father’s character. 

“Christine,” he at length said, sitting down 
once more by her side, “my father has given his 
consent to our union. Neither you nor I was 
responsible for the cause which influenced him 
then, nor can responsibility be laid to our doors 
in this present case. If he withdraws that con- 
sent, I will marry you without it.” 

“ Paul !” 

“ I am resolved, darling. No power of earth 
shall separate us !’* 

Christine, who loved him so deeply and so de- 
votedly, and who felt that her all of life was bound 
up in him, could only rest her head upon his 


The Plot Progresses. 


135 


bosom. Yet he had not lifted the burden from 
her heart. She who must, if suffering came, bear 
the passive part, had no strength of will but to 
endure. She had read her doom in the coldness 
of the father, and though the impassioned vow of 
her lover was grateful to her soul, she dared not 
accept it as authority. 

Paul, when he made the vow, had not entirely 
considered the power of his father’s will. Yet he 
had spoken truly — he had spoken from the utter- 
most depths of his heart; he had sworn only that 
which he had resolved to fulfill. He could not 
then realize to what depths of misfortune a war 
with parental authority might lead. 

Had there been parties at hand of Madame 
Rachel’s kin, or had there been even one strong 
man, with cool and level head, deeply interested 
enough to demand and pursue investigation 
without fear or favor, many incidents connected 
with the closing days of the deceased, and espe- 
cially connected with the matter of the will, 
which were now suffered to pass lightly away, 
might have been dragged up to new and startling 
proportions. 

Christine, the party most directly interested, 


136 


The Plot Progresses, 


could not act for herself. Every sense of mod- 
esty and decency forbade it. She knew that in 
truth she was but a nameless foundling — that she 
had been all the years of her life an humble 
dependent upon Madame Rachel’s bounty, and 
that, under the question of stern right, she had 
claim only to gratitude for favors already 
received, rather than claim for favors in the 
future. In short, when brought face to face with 
the bare facts of her life, she shrank from pub- 
licity as the true heart ever shrinks from the 
exposure of inherited misfortunes. 

Dr. Arkwright, though a true friend, and 
plainly conversant with affairs at the Brookside, 
was not the man to institute proceedings at law. 
He was a quiet, plethoric individual, following 
his profession from the impulse of long habit, 
and possessing energy for little else. Had 
Christine appealed to him, he might have made 
an effort in her behalf, for he was a gallant man, 
and really loved the beautiful girl. But she did 
not seek his aid. 

Hon. Nathan Way brook had an interest at 
stake, and he was, moreover, amply qualified for 
the work of investigation; but his pride stood in 


The Plot Progresses. 137 

his way. Had Christine been a legal heir, so 
that the investigation might have begun and 
ended with the will, he would undoubtedly have 
entered into the work ; but he saw plainly that 
the very first steps of opposition — should oppo- 
sition be made — would be to question the 
maiden’s inherent right. This would bring the 
truth to the surface, and it would be published 
in all the papers of the day that the son of Hon. 
Nathan Way brook had been affianced to a name- 
less foundling, and that he, the honorable parent, 
had been willing to sacrifice blood to wealth. 

Of the household there were none to help. 
Old Hagar had followed Tom to the silent shore, 
and Lora was alone left to bear her young mis- 
tress company. But Lora could do nothing 
toward lifting the vail that darkened the future. 
She had seen two old wills destroyed, and knew 
that Madame Rachel had ordered their destruc- 
tion, but she knew nothing of any new will. She 
had been sent to summon the two workmen from 
the garden, but she could not declare for what 
they had been summoned, nor did she know that 
they had been admitted to Rachel’s presence. 
She had only conducted them to an ante- 


138 The Plot Pi' ogresses. 

chamber, where Mr. Halford had received 
them. 

John Downey, the gardener, was of account 
only so far as he threw a very uncertain and mis- 
directing glimmer upon the disappearance of 
Eben Sanders and Seth Davis. He told of the 
coming to his cot of two men who were engaged 
in looking up hands for a great work out W est. 

“ And I think," he said, “ that they offered 
Sanders and Davis great pay. At all events, 
they said that good Yankee farmers, who knew 
how to work, were in great demand to fill the 
places of directors and overseers. I fancied that 
my two men bit at the bait, and as they were 
under contract with me for the season, they 
chose to slip off on the sly." 

When it came to be discovered that not quite 
a week’s wages were due to the missing men, 
Madame Rachel having paid them weekly, John 
Downey’s hypothesis seemed entirely consistent, 
the more so as he fortified his opinion with the 
fancies which, from his own prejudices, he had 
magnified into facts. And so this circumstance, 
which, under rigid scrutiny, might have led to 


The Plot Progresses. 


^39 




grave suspicions in other directions, was, in the 
end, passed over as of no material consequence. 

Only one other person remained who was at 
all interested in, or cognizant of, the merits of 
the case, and that was Caspar Hugo. 

We would not forget Paul Way brook. But 
his interest was not of a kind to be considered 
under the circumstances. Moreover, his father 
would not suffer him to interfere. Once the 
youth had ventured upon the declaration that he 
would take the law in the case upon his own 
responsibility. Ordinarily, Mr. Way brook, 
senior, would have been wroth at such a mani- 
festation of filial disrespect, but in the present 
instance he regarded it simply as an ebullition 
of precocious obstreperousness, and, with an 
ironic smile, he asked the young man how old he 
was. Paul guessed that he lacked two weeks of 
being one-and-twenty ; and the reflection came 
crushing upon him that he was as yet but a child 
in the eyes of the law. 

So Caspar Hugo was the only remaining man 
to whom inquiry could be directed. We will 
pass over the many interviews held by other par- 
ties, and come to the final consultation with the . 


140 


The Plot Progresses, 


clerk by the Hon. Mr. Way brook. Thus far, 
Hugo had sustained his reputation as an honest, 
upright and devoted clerk, and Nathan Way- 
brook, fancying that he possessed great tact in 
reading human character, expressed himself as 
thankful that Halford’s business had been left 
in such capable hands. There had been no 
loophole through which a possible suspicion 
could attach to the clerk. The secretion or de- 
struction of a will would not seem to have bene- 
fited him, not in the least ; but, rather, he should 
have expected benefit from the presence of a will. 

Mr. Waybrook was welcomed to the office by 
the clerk, and ushered to a chair of state, as 
though he had been a magnate of supreme emin- 
ence. He bowed condescendingly, and felt 
evidently happy that he had to confer with so 
perfect and proper a gentleman. 

Mr. Waybrook opened his business. He did 
not wish to be intrusive ; but he wished the 
utmost possible amount of light, with a view to 
a final settlement of the matter in his own mind. 

Caspar Hugo bade the merchant to proceed. 
He would give all the light he had to give, and 
he would render any assistance that lay in hir 


The Plot Progresses. 141 

power. And he would do it all with the utmost 
cheerfulness. 

“Do you think it possible,” asked Waybrook, 
“ that Mr. Halford could have written a will at 
Madame Rachel’s dictation without your knowl- 
edge ?” 

“ Such a thing would have been utterly impos- 
sible,” answered the clerk, emphatically, but very 
politely. 

“ Then it is your own private opinion that no 
new will was made?” pursued the merchant. 

Hugo meditated for a little time, and finally, 
with a frank smile, and with a look and tone in 
which frankness was fairly crystalized, he said : 

“My dear Mr. Waybrook, I can tell you the 
whole story in a very few words, and you will 
then be enabled to understand the matter just as 
it presents itself to me. As I have told you 
before, Mr. Halford and myself went to the 
Brookside at Madame Rachel’s call. Halford 
held a long consultation with her before I was 
summoned to her chamber. Of the subject- 
matter of that consultation 1 cannot speak, though 
I fancy it had chiefly to do with a reviewal of 
stocks and bank accounts. There can be no 


142 


The Plot Progresses. 


doubt that the subject of the will was spoken 
of at that time, as subsequent remarks in my 
hearing plainly indicated ; but I can swear that 
no steps, even, toward making a will were 
taken. After I was summoned, the first work 
accomplished was the destruction of the two old 
wills; and then, referring to something which 
seemed to have been said before 1 had been 
admitted, a new will was spoken of, and madame 
desired that witnesses should be at hand, so 
that they might be summoned without delay, 
should they be needed ; and thereupon I went 
out and arranged for the calling of the two 
workmen from the garden — the only two persons 
on the premises who were found to be entirely 
disinterested. While I was gone from the cham- 
ber upon this quest, madame and the attorney 
continued their discussion, and upon my return, 
I gathered that the dying woman was anxious to 
make a will, but was deterred therefrom by 
considerations which she stated in my hearing. 
She said that she had inherited her wealth from 
her husband, and she did not know but that there 
were relatives of her husband then living in New 
Orleans. They might be in want. She could 


The Plot Progresses. 


not in justice make a will which should forever 
divert the wealth of their relative from them. 
At that time madame felt that she was gaining 
strength, and she believed she should live to hear 
from New Orleans, if her attorney would write 
at once. Mr. Halford, after due consideration, 
advised the course — or, at least, fell in with it — 
and the message was despatched forthwith. You 
know the rest, sir. Madame Rachel was not so 
strong as she had thought. She had probably 
stimulated herself for the work she had in hand, 
and thus over-estimated her stock of strength in 
reserve.” 

“And Mr. Halford wrote to New Orleans?” 
suggested Way brook. 

“ 1 wrote at his dictation,” said the clerk. 

“ Did you write to any particular individual ?” 

“ The message was sent to an attorney who 
had been mentioned by madame — a Mr. Zenas 
Lefhngton.” 

“And the purport of the letter was to in- 
quire — ” 

“ To inquire,” finished out the clerk, “ if there 
were to be found in that region any descendants 
of_of — I must refer to my memorandum, sir. 


144 


The Plot Progresses. 


The name has slipped my memory. Ah ! here 
we have it,” — referring to his tablets — “ of 
Theresa St. Clair, sister of Victor St. Clair, who 
married Jasper Murdoch. This Victor St. Clair, 
sir, was madame’s husband.” 

“ Have you heard from New Orleans?” 

“ A letter came yesterday, sir, which, by 
instruction, I opened. I will show it to you.” 

Caspar turned to his desk, and took from a 
file an open letter, which he handed to the mer- 
chant. It was dated at New Orleans, and read 
as follows : 

“ Dear Sir : Yours of the 20th ult. was duly 
received, and I have applied myself diligently 
to the work of looking up the heirs in question, 
and I think I have found them. Theresa Mur- 
doch, nee St. Clair, had a daughter, Eveline. 
This daughter married Pierre Compton. These 
Comptons are dead — Pierre and Eveline — but 
they left children, one of whom, at least, a son, 
named Alexander, married, some thirty years 
ago, here in New Orleans. So that, even if I do 
not hit upon this Alexander Compton, I shall 
probably find children of the fourth generation. 


The Plot Progresses, 


145 


“ The telegram announcing the death of 
Rachel St. Clair reached me before the letter. 
If I find the heirs, I will make clear their titles 
and bring them on. * * * Very respectfully, 

“ Z. Leffington. 

“To Adam Halford, Esq., Boston ^ 

“ I did not telegraph the fact of Halford’s 
death until after I had sent the announcement of 
madame’s demise,” explained Caspar, as the mer- 
chant returned the letter ; “ but I have since 
written at length, and future communications 
will be either made through me or directly to 
the administrator.” 

“ It would seem, then,” said Waybrook, “that 
we are likely to find lineal heirs.” 

“ Be sure Mr. Leffington will find them if they 
are alive.” 

‘ “And,” added the merchant, as he arose from 
his seat, “ if no heirs come from that direction, 
the commonwealth must hold the estate ?” 

“ So it would seem, as madame left no heirs of 
her own body.” 

Mr. Waybrook thanked the clerk for his kind- 
ness and took his leave ; and as shortly there- 


146 


The Plot Progresses. 


after as possible Caspar Hugo closed the office 
and hastened away. He was bound for his 
chambers, but he did not go by the usual route. 
He went down Court street into Greene, thence 
into Leverett, thence through Causeway to Port- 
land, coming up from the opposite direction to 
that usually followed. He reached his chambers 
without impediment, and found his father in. 

“How’s this, my son? You are at home 
early. Has anything gone wrong ?” 

Caspar made sure that they were safe from 
observation, and then, taking a seat, replied : 

“ On the contrary, everything is going well ; 
and I have come to tell you that you have borne 
your share of our assumed name long enough. 
This very night you must go to New York, and 
there wait for Leffington. He has my instruc- 
tions to the very letter, and he will be there by 
day after to-morrow with all the papers we shall 
need. Once in New York, you will assume your 
proper guise and name, and when I next see you 
we shall meet as strangers.” 

“ But, Caspar, is the coast clear ?” 

“ Entirely so. I have this very afternoon 
thrown the last hound from the scent, and not 


The Plot Progresses. 147 

the least bar stands in our way. Since Adolphe 
Hugo’s death, I think we are the only living 
heirs of Theresa St. Clair Murdoch. Adolphe’s 
folly served us a good turn, truly.” 

“ And we thought him dead before,” smiled 
Caspar. 

“ Aye,” responded the other, “ or we should 
not have assumed his family name. I think, my 
son, we might have made a safer hit in our selec- 
tion of a false name ; but, it’s just as well now — 
just as well, since I have had no occasion to 
appear on the scene.” 

'' It’s all as well as it can be ; so, now, stir your 
stumps and be off. You will have barely time 
to prepare, and catch the New York train.” 

“ Gad, my boy, we’ll be rich !” 

“ As rich as nabobs.” 

“ But we’ll contrive to do something for that 
beauty at the cottage.” 

“ I will look out for her,” said Caspar, with a 
catching of his breath. 

But can you do it ? Will she turn from her 
first love ? Look out, my boy, and don t catch a 
Tartar.” 

‘‘ Let me alone for that,” said Caspar, with an 


T48 


The Plot Progresses. 


assuring nod. “ As for her first love, the Honor- 
able Nathan Way brook will cut that Gordian 
knot before he sleeps. I know the lay of the 
land in that quarter. Miss Christine, penniless 
and homeless, will be a different bit of game 
from the grand beauty of the Brookside Cottage. 
Leave her to me. I never saw another girl so 
beautiful !” 

“1 wish you success, my boy.” 

‘‘ There’s no such word as fail, with the cards 
I hold. You shall have her for a daughter-in- 
law within a month after the estate is settled. 
And now, be up and stirring.” 

That evening, the man whom we have known 
as Alexander Hugo, but who had never shown 
himself abroad under that name, left Boston by 
the Fall River line for New York. He was hab- 
ited in a seaman’s garb, and after reaching Fall 
River took a deck-passage. 

And at about the same time Hon. Nathan 
Waybrook entered his mansion, and having 
repaired to his library, he rang for a servant, and 
ordered that his son should be sent up to him. 

Word came back that his son was out. He 


The Parefifs Fiat — Endora, 


149 


had been seen going in the direction of the 
Brookside. 

“ Go find him, and send him to me at once. 
Say it is my command. My business is urgent 
and imperative !” 

And when the messenger was gone Mr. Way- 
brook paced to and fro, his hands clenched, and 
his jaws locked, while his eyes flamed with the 
resolution that occupied his thoughts. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE parent’s fiat — ENDORA. 

Paul Waybrook stood by Christine’s side, hold- 
ing one of her hands. They were in the park, 
beneath one of the great elms, and the shadows 
of the closing day had merged into the all- 
pervading shadow of evening. There had been 
tears upon the maiden’s face, but they were now 
wiped away, and she had forced a calmness 
which was maintained only by persistent effort. 

I tell you again, Christine — I tell you once 


150 The Parenfs Fiat—Endora, 

for all — that no power of earth shall separate us ! 
If my father will disinherit me, let him. In one 
short week I shall be of age, and then I come into 
possession of twenty thousand dollars left me by 
my mother’s father. That sum cannot be kept 
from me. With that, we can commence life. 
I shall enter business, and we will be as happy 
as the day is long. Now don’t dash any more 
cold water on my prospects.” 

Before further words could be spoken, they 
were aroused by a footfall near at hand, and 
directly afterward a servant from Elmside stood 
before them. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” the messenger said, 
respectfully, “ but I have come from your father. 
He wishes to see you immediately.” 

'^‘Tell him,” returned Paul, with a quiver of 
restraint in his voice, “ that I will be with him 
soon.” 

“ He said, sir, if you please, that it was a matter 
of the utmost importance, and he would see you 
without delay.” 

Paul waved his hand impatiently, and the ser- 
vant turned away. 

“ Fear not, my darling. No evil can come if 


The Parenfs Fiat Endora, 15 1 

we are true to each other. I will be true, so help 
me Heaven !” 

He led her to the cottage, and kissed her, and 
then turned toward his own home. He felt, in 
his spirit, the significance of his father’s sum- 
mons, and he prepared himself to meet the needs 
of the occasion. It appeared to him the turning- 
point of his life. Though young and buoyant, 
and by nature emotional and excitable, he was 
possessed of a goodly fund of sound sense. His 
association with Christine had benefited him. It 
had made him older in the experience of true 
life. He might have loved a girl far less worth}", 
and might have been as ardently attached to her 
as he was now to Christine ; but in his present 
love a fount of true and just appreciation had 
been opened which might never have been 
touched by another. He had come to know that 
Christine was good and pure and true, and, 
knowing t^iis, he had, from the deeper wells of 
understanding, drawn the conclusion that the 
possession of Christine St. Clair for his wife 
would constitute the one great essential to all 
after happiness. 

Mr. Way brook was seated at his table with a 


152 


The Parent's Fiat — Endora. 


closed book in his hand, when his son entered. 
He looked up, and motioned the youth to a seat. 
His face was cold and stern, and his lips and 
hands compressed. 

“ Paul,” he said, with an icy calmness, “ as the 
present business admits of no possible variation, 
we will make it as brief as possible. You cannot 
be ignorant of my purpose. When I gave a 
reluctant consent to your suit with the girl Chris- 
tine, I believed that she was the heir of Madame 
Rachel. In fact, I had been directly given so to 
understand. But it now turns out that she is a 
penniless, nameless waif, without even a habita- 
tion or a name.” 

“ She has for a habitation the whole of my 
heart ; and, for a name, she has my most solemn 
vow !” 

So spoke Paul, quietly, but with intense feeling. 
His father started, and brought his clenched hand 
down upon the table vehemently. 

“ Paul, we will have no discussion in this mat- 
ter. I shall, exercise the authority of a parent. 
You were not of age when you plighted your 
troth — you are not yet of age. I forbid the union ! 
Let me hope that you will not force me to sterner 


The Parent's Fiat — Endora. 


153 


measures. As Rachel St. Clair’s adopted child 
and heir, the girl would have held honorable 
position ; but as she is — a nameless foundling — 
perhaps the child of — ” 

“ Hush !” Paul held up his hand as he thus 
interrupted his father’s speech, and his face was 
ashen pale. The blood had all gone back to his 
heart, and he had great difficulty in preventing 
a surging forth of the flood in fire and wrath. 

At least,” went on the parent, a child who 
may, in the hour of her marriage, be claimed by 
a criminal from the very lowest slough of igno- 
miny and disrepute. It can never be, my son. 
Against it I interpose my authority. It is my 
command, laid upon you solemnly and unreserv- 
edly, that you see the girl no more as a lover. 
The union between you is from this time broken 
off. You will take due notice thereof, and gov- 
ern yourself accordingly.” 

The blood was still forced back upon Paul’s 
heart, and when he spoke, it was in a tone 
scarcely raised above a whisper ; but his words 
were painfully distinct, and his meaning not to 
be mistaken. Well had it been for the father if 


154 


The Parent's Fiat — Endora. 


his perceptions had been keener, and his sense 
less blinded by rage. 

“ Father,” the young man said, “ I have known 
the lady of whom you speak for many years, 
and of late I have had opportunity to study 
the indwelling traits which are at the very foun- 
dation of her character. All that is pure and 
true and good she is. All that is high and noble 
and aspiring in spirit characterizes her. Among 
all the women of my acquaintance she is a queen. 
She alone fills the measure of womanly graces 
which may make perfection — such perfection as 
earth can afford. She alone, of all I have ever 
seen, has the power to remind me of my mother. 
I have plighted to her my troth — our vows have 
been exchanged — and I cannot now give her 
up.” 

“ Boy, you must ! It is my command !” 

I have said — I cannot !” 

“You forget, sir, you are but a child. I hold 
you under lawful authority.” 

“ Once before you told me that. Then I 
lacked two weeks of my majority. Now I lack 
only a week.” 


1 he Par 671 f s Fiat — Endo 7 'a. 


155 


“ And — sir ! — do you mean that you will dis- 
obey me?” 

“ I mean, that I will not tamely submit to a 
sacrifice of my whole future.” 

“ And,” cried the father, arising from his chair, 
and clutching his hands with intense passion, 
listen to my final speech : If you persist — if you 
continue your intercourse with that girl — I will 
discard you forever! — Yes, more, — I now make 
your disinheritance contingent upon the act. If 
you see her again as her lover, you are no more 
a son of mine !” 

And so father and son separated, the former to 
regain an outward composure by pacing to and 
fro in his study, while the other walked out upon 
the carriage-way, there to strengthen himself for 
the work he had in hand — the work of guiding 
his own bark and selecting his own voyage in 
life ; for he was fully assured that his father 
would not relent. 

Nathan Way brook was not a hard-hearted 
man, and yet his son had judged him rightly. 
He was a proud and ambitious man, tenacious of 
authority, and of strong self-will. Do you say 
that he was unnatural ? So may the best of men 


156 The Parent's Fiat — Endora, 


be at times unnatural. Did you never strike 
your child in a passion ? Did you never hold 
anger against a dearly loved one because you 
were too proud to acknowledge an error t Did 
you never suffer a cloud to rest upon your house- 
hold when a simple kind word, which you would 
not speak, might have brought back light and 
joy ? Ah ! there is more sin against nature in 
the very best of us than we are prone to acknowl- 
edge. We shudder at the quantity rather than 
at the quality. We condemn the result rather 
than the principle inherent in the cause. The 
veriest coward, once goaded to passion, may 
fight like a hero ; and so the really human heart, 
when once it opens its portals to impotent wrath, 
may foster feelings utterly inhuman. 

Nathan Waybrook was resolved; resolved 
that his son should not marry the nameless 
foundling of the Brookside ; and in support of 
his resolution he had issued his solemn mandate. 
Would his boy dare to disobey? The very 
thought awoke fires of vengeance in his heart, 
and opened the way to a further resolution 
which his towering pride was to sustain, and 
which was to become the bane of his life. 


The Parent's Fiat — Endora. 


157 


After this, for several days, father and son 
avoided each other ; and when they met, a 
casual observer might have deemed them strang- 
ers. On the very next day Paul called at the 
Brookside Cottage, and he was forced to admit 
to Christine that matters had gone unpleasantly 
at home. In the end, he said to her : 

“But don’t borrow trouble. We will have a 
home of our own, darling, where love shall make 
joy and peace.” 

And Christine, under the bright light of his 
smile and the inspiration of his ardent pledge, 
could not find it in her heart to turn from him. 

And yet when he had left her, she reasoned 
with herself anew, and wrought upon herself the 
conviction that she ought not to encourage him 
further. She loved him with her whole heart, 
but had she a right to sever him from a father’s 
love ? Should she accept at his hands a faith 
which must come of a broken faith under his 
own roof-tree? Would it be well for him — 
would it be well for her — that they should 
launch forth together with such dawning upon 
the new life ? She, a nameless foundling, with 
shadows of doubt hanging over her, and he cut 


158 The Parenf s Fiat — Endora, 


off forever from the home of his childhood ? 
She with never a parent known, and he with a 
parent outraged and forsaken? Would it be 
well ? Beneath the solemn conviction that 
rested down upon her, she bowed in silent, tear- 
less agony, and prayed to God for strength. 

She had seen Paul disappear beyond a garden 
hedge, and was turning toward the cottage, 
when she found a woman standing in her path ; 
a strange woman it was, aged and decrepit. At 
first Christine was startled, but when she came 
to regard the intruder more closely, she was 
quite at her ease so far as fear was concerned. 
The woman was certainly three-score-and-ten, 
and bent as though with recent sickness. Her 
clothing was shabby, though worn with an air of 
grace, such as pride may give to poverty. Her 
face was dark, as though from long suffering and 
much exposure, and the features were sharp and 
pinched, with deep furrows corrugating the 
whole surface. And yet, with all, her aspect 
was not unpleasant. At a distance, where only 
general outlines were apparent, she might have 
been deemed repulsive ; but nearer, to one who 
chose to examine closely, there was much that 


The Pare7tfs Fiat — Endora, 


159 


was inviting and benign. She stood in the mid- 
dle of the path, leaning upon a cross-headed staff, 
and had probably been watching the youthful 
couple ere they had separated. 

“ Don’t let me frighten you,” she said, as Chris- 
tine drew near. Her voice, though not musical, 
was far from being unpleasant. “ I had no desire 
to intrude.” And she regarded the maiden with 
a gaze so earnest and eager that it would have 
been oppressive had not the light of the keen blue 
eye been soft and kindly. 

You do not intrude at all,” replied Christine, 
in sweetest accents. In her forlorn and lonesome 
estate she could sympathize with another who 
might be homeless ; and if the applicant was 
aged, she did not forget that the best friend she 
had ever known had been more aged still. 

I am weary, lady, and would rest me for a 
brief season.” 

“ Take my arm, and come with me. You shall 
have both rest and refreshment.” 

The girl, without thought of danger, gave her 
arm to the old woman and led hen toward the 
cottage. She felt less unhappy in being thus 
enabled to minister to the needs of a suffering 


6o 


The Parent's Fiat — Endora. 


creature ; and as she felt the pressure of the 
trembling hand upon her arm, and received the 
grateful murmur of thanks, it seemed as though 
light was already gleaming in upon the darkness 
which had gathered about her. 

When they had reached the cottage, Christine 
conducted the wayfarer to a seat in the smaller 
drawing-room, and then called Lora. The ser- 
vant came in, and when she saw the old woman, 
and met the gaze of the dark-blue eyes, she started 
as though she had seen an apparition. 

“ It is only a good woman who is tired and 
hungry,” said Christine ; and I have brought 
her in that she may rest and refresh herself. 
Will you help me, please ?” 

Refreshments were served, and after a time the 
woman turned to our heroine and said : 

“ My child, I did not come here by accident. I 
came here on purpose. I came to learn some- 
thing of Rachel St. Clair. I knew her once — 
long, long ago. I heard she was dead.” 

“ Yes,” answered Christine, wiping the tears 
from her eyes. Did you know her very well ?” 

“ She was once my friend.” 


AT FIRST CHRISTINE WAS STARTLED.— /S'ee Page 158. 



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The Parentis Fiat — Endora. 


i6i 


“You knew the best and the dearest woman 
that ever lived !’’ 

“ But,” pursued the visitor, “ if I hear aright, 
she sadly neglected her duty to yourself.” 

“ No, no,” cried the fair girl, impulsively. 
“She did all she could do, and I am sure — I am 
sure — ” 

“ That she meant to have done more ?” 

“ Yes, I am sure of it.” 

“ My dear child, I shall probably hear many 
conflicting stories, and so would you mind telling 
me the whole truth, just as you understand it — 
such, I mean, as you are at liberty to tell ?” 

“ If you feel an interest — ” 

“ Have I not told you that I knew Rachel St. 
Clair? Would to God I could have seen her ere 
she died ! But it was not to be. I have been 
sick — very near death myself — or I might have 
been here ere this.” 

Christine had nothing to fear in the telling of 
her storj^ to this woman, and she told it as she 
knew it — told all, from the death of Rachel to the 
present— told of the investigations which had 
been made concerning the will, and of the result 
of the same. And, in answer to questions, she 


i 62 


The Parenfs Fiat — Endora. 


told of Caspar Hugo’s testimony touching the 
last meeting between Rachel and her attorney. 

“ Then you think,” said the visitor, “ that there 
may have been villainy in the scheme?” 

“No, no,” answered Christine; “I dare not 
think that. I only think that the last and most 
earnest wish and purpose of my foster-mother 
was not permitted to be carried out ; for I 
know that she had planned to make me her heir. 
But it is well as it is. I have her love — I have 
the memory of her motherly kindness through 
all my years of remembrance, and I will not 
repine.” 

The old woman arose from her chair and 
brought her staff down smartly upon the floor. 

“ I can see villainy in this, if you do not,” she 
said. A brief pause, and she added: “But I 
speak hastily. It were well to be sure ere we 
condemn. As I told you before, I knew Rachel 
St. Clair ; and, if she were living, I think, for 
your sake, she would trust me. If I send a 
lawyer to you, will you confide in him ?” 

Christine hesitated, not from distrust, but from 
amazement. 


The Parent's Fiat — Endora. 


163 

The woman marked the emotion, and quietly 
said : 

“ If 1 send to you a respectable lawyer, you 
will at least receive him respectfully, for the 
sake of the true friend at whose instance he 
comes ?” 

Yes, yes — and I will confide in him, too.” 

“You may confide in him, if he can inspire 
you with confidence ;*not otherwise.” 

“ But,” urged Christine, as the woman was 
upon the point of turning away, “ you will tell 
me who you are? I may know — why I am to 
be thus indebted ?” 

“ It is I who am indebted, my child. I would 
serve you, because I believe you are pure and 
good, and, moreover, because I am indebted to 
Rachel St. Clair. You may call me Endora. I 
shall see you again.” 

And thus speaking, the woman went away ; 
and very shortly afterward, Lora came into the 
drawing-room. 

“ Missus, who was dat woman ?” 

“Why, Lora?” demanded Christine, surprised 
by the servant’s excited manner. “ What did 
you observe remarkable about her?” 


164 The Parent's Fiat — Endora. 


“ I don’t know what it was missus ; but sure as 
de world, Fse seen her before/’ 

Where ? When ?” 

“Lord ’a mercy! I don’t know. I can’t 
t’ink. Didn’t you nebber see her ?” 

“ Never before, to my knowledge, Lora.” 

“Well, it’s past my comprehendin’; but, sure 
as you is born, Fse seen her before somewhar. 
D’ye t’ink she’s good?” 

“ I think she is my friend.” 

“ Be keerful, be keerful. Miss Christine. De 
ole sarpint can take a good many shapes.” 

Christine was not inclined to listen to Lora’s 
superstitious fancies, and yet she could not but 
feel that there was something significant in the 
recognition, of which the servant was so positive. 
That she had seen the old woman before, Lora 
was fully assured ; though where, or when, she 
could not say. She could only declare, with sol- 
emn earnestness, that she knew the face. 

Christine borrowed no trouble from the ser- 
vant’s strange vagary— she had enough already 
— nevertheless, it made an impression upon 
her mind, and gave her food for perplexing 
thought. 


The Heir, 


i6n 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE HEIR. 

It was a bright, crisp morning in September, 
early in the month, that two gentlemen arrived 
in Boston by the Fall River route from New 
York. The first, he who took the lead, as 
though best acquainted with the city, was a 
staid-appearing, well-dressed — But why waste 
words? It was the self-same individual whom 
we have known as Alexander Hugo ; but upon 
his luggage appeared now the name Alexander 
Compton, and that name he was undoubtedly 
entitled to wear. Various other cognomens 
which he had found occasion to assume from 
time to time, had been none of his by inherit- 
ance. We know him, because we have been cog- 
nizant of his secret movements ; but those who 
have casually met him upon the street, or in the 
dens and cribs where the tiger " lies in wait, 
will not recognize him in this, his proper guise. 
He has been lurking in Boston under a vail, and 


The Heir, 


1 66 

for a purpose, as we know ; and having, as he is 
sure, struck the ascending plane, he appears 
upon the scene to accept the benefits of the good 
fortune. And he has brought with him Mr. 
Zenas Leffington, a lawyer of New Orleans, who, 
for a consideration, had lent himself, body and 
soul, to the work. He has met the lawyer in 
New York. 

This is Mr. Leffington who now bears Alexan- 
der Compton company. He is a man of sixty, 
or thereabouts, sharp-faced, keen-eyed and well- 
looking. If there has been any deep villainy, he 
has evidently had nothing to do with it. He 
does not look like a man who would knowingly 
or willingly take a hand in a game of open ras- 
cality. But he is a lawyer ; and he is nervous 
and persistent ; and with a basis of right upon 
the side of his client, he would not b^ likely to 
waste respect or consideration upon the feelings 
of opponents. We may say here, without betray- 
ing any confidence, that Zenas Leffington did not 
know that any villainy — an)^ direct infraction of 
the statutes — had been committed. He knew 
only this : 

That the Comptons had been engaged in look- 


ing after their interests in Boston, while he had 
been gathering evidence in and about New 
Orleans. He knew that Caspar had, in a man- 
ner not strictly legitimate, gained entrance into 
the service of Rachel St. Clair’s attorney, but 
that was, in his estimation, a piece of strategy 
pardonable either in law or war. How much he 
might have suspected, had he been inclined to 
suspect, we cannot say ; but it was not his busi- 
ness to suspect his clients so long as they gave 
him a fair pretext, and what was, perhaps, full as 
important in his eyes, a plump retainer, with 
promise of golden increase in case of successful 
issue. 

Caspar Hugo (we must still know him by the 
name he has thus far worn to us) had received a 
telegram announcing the proposed arrival of his 
father and the^ lawyer, and, by previous appoint- 
ment, he met them in a private apartment near 
the railroad station. The first business, after 
having assured themselves that they were secure 
from observation, was the examination by Caspar 
of papers and verbal evidence, brought by Lef- 
fington. 

“ It is enough ! The chain is complete — not a 


The Heir, 


1 68 


link missing !” cried the young man, rubbing his 
hands exultantly. 

“ The chain upon our side is complete,” admit- 
ted the lawyer ; “ but how is the business here?” 

Caspar explained the whole matter as it then 
stood. 

Had Leffington chosen to suspect the conceal- 
ment of a will, he might have gone on and sus- 
pected much more ; but, as we have already 
remarked, he did not deem it any part of his 
business to suspect his clients. He had not been 
retained for that purpose. He listened very 
patiently to the end, and then said : 

I think you have a clear case. No flaw 
appears upon the surface ; and if nothing now 
transpires to interfere, the court cannot do other- 
wise than give you the property. And now,” 
pursued the man of law, addressing Caspar, “ let 
us understand one another perfectly. You are 
to retain your assumed name through the busi- 
ness ?” 

“ I must,” replied the clerk. “ There is no tell- 
ing what wild things might be suspected were I 
now to discover myself. When I found how 
close and reticent old Halford was, and how 


The Heir. 


69 


jealously he guarded the secrets of his clients, 
I was forced to resort to stratagem ; and as it 
is fair to judge an act by its motive, I feel that 
since I only sought my inherent rights, my 
method of procedure, forced upon me by neces- 
sity, cannot be considered culpable. Not a soul 
in New England, outside of this present trio, 
knows me for else than I have appeared. My 
father will enter upon the stage as an utter 
stranger. 1 propose that, when we leave this 
apartment, we forget that I have ever known or 
seen either of you. You have come hither in 
answer to legal summons, and you will directly 
seek my counsel and guidance.’' 

A moment’s pause, and he ad^ed, with a smile : 

“ I shall trust my father to claim and receive 
the property. He will not play me false.” 

“ And could not if he would,” said the parent, 
with an answering smile. 

It is not my purpose to enter into the details 
of the legal proceedings which followed. We 
need only state what came to pass of important 
result. Alexander Compton, hailing from New 
Orleans, and accompanied by his lawyer, laid 
claim to the estate of the late Rachel St Clair, 


The Heir. 


1 70 

and presented to the probate court his creden- 
tials. Mr. Leffington was his legal counsel, and 
was properly introduced. 

Alexander Compton was a man of the world, 
and knew how to make himself agreeable ; and 
to the probate officers he showed his very best 
face. He appeared a meek and pious man, though 
he did not overdo the thing by verging upon 
sentimentality. For himself he cared not so 
much as for his children, and for his prospec- 
tive grandchildren. Zenas Leffington was 
already known to the court by reputation ; and 
it was fortunate for the Comptons that they had 
secured the services of a lawyer who had, at 
least, a fair record of success in his profession to 
recommend him. 

First, Mr. Leffington produced an attested copy 
of a will made by Victor St. Clair, husband of 
Rachel, said will having been duly acknowledged 
by legal authority and admitted to probate. The 
will was in two parts. The first had been made 
shortly after the marriage, and was a simple 
bequeathment of everything of which St. Clair 
might die possessed to his beloved wife Rachel, 
without restriction or reservation of any kind. 


The Heir. 


171 


After this, his child Pauline had been born, and 
he had added a codicil. This codicil, however, 
did not seem to reflect so directly upon the child 
as upon a sister, who was at that time married 
and living near him. Though the birth of the 
child afforded the opportunity, the occasion was 
embraced to express a remembrance of this sister, 
not by direct bequest, but in a contingent which 
would seem to have been meant as a hint of his 
wishes to his wife. 

This codicil did not in the least alter the spirit 
of the original will. It still left the wife free to 
hold and to dispose of the property ; but it pro- 
vided that if, while living, she should not other- 
wise will, the property should, in the event of 
her death, go to his child. But, further, in case 
of the death of Rachel intestate, and the death 
of his child without issue, the property should 
go to the issue of his sister Theresa ; and, failing 
all these, it should be taken and held in trust by 
the city of New Orleans for certain charitable 
purposes which were specified. The will closed 
with the following — the original being in Victor 
St. Clair’s own hand — and Mr. Leffington called 
especial attention to it, as showing how strong 


The Heir, 


172 

and permeating was the devoted love which had 
been able, even in seeming, for a season to blot 
out the due remembrance of a sister: 

“ And yet I do declare it as fully in accord- 
ance with my will and pleasure, that my beloved 
wife Rachel, may, if circumstances shall so 
incline her, bequeath said estate, both real and 
personal, in whole or in part, to whomsoever it 
may please her ; and her act shall be held right 
and just before God and man. Thus do I mani- 
fest how truly I love and honor her.” 

The court being satisfied of the nature of Vic- 
tor St. Clair’s will, Leffington proceeded, in 
behalf of his client, to make known the further 
grounds of his claim ; and, by abundance of evi- 
dence, with other evidence that could be had if 
wanted, he proved as follows : 

Theresa St. Clair, the sister of the testator, 
married, in New Orleans, Jasper Murdoch. Of 
their issue, two daughters, Theresa and Eve- 
line, lived and married. Theresa married a 
James Hugo, and died in giving birth to her 
first child. This child, the only issue of Theresa 
and James Hugo, lived to manhood, and was 


The Heir. 


173 


named Adolphe. He was an unfortunate fellow, 
sadly dissolute and intemperate. 

“ And,” explained Leffington, “ his friends gave 
him up as dead long ago. They once received 
information direct that he had been killed in a 
drunken affray at Vicksburg. But, from recent 
events, it would seem that the poor man had 
lived to wander this way, as we have no doubt 
that he was the man who was found dead upon 
the railroad track not long since. He must have 
been in search of Madame Rachel, probably for 
the purpose of obtaining money. Touching his 
assault upon the girl Christine, I can offer no 
explanation, because I know not the exact cir- 
cumstances. I have no doubt, however, that he 
was a desperate fellow ; and if he had planned a 
bold stroke, he would undoubtedly have struck 
had it been in his power.” 

The coincidence of the agreement of Caspar’s 
family name with that of the dead ruffian was 
not at this time particularly noted. It had been 
spoken of before, and had become an old story. 

Mr. Leffington then proceeded with his devel- 
opment : 

Eveline, the second daughter of Jasper and 


174 


Caspar on the War-Path, 


Theresa Murdoch, married Pierre Compton. 
They both died within ten years after their mar- 
riage, leaving two children, one of whom alone 
lived to grow up. That living child of Pierre 
and Eveline, named Alexander, is now before 
the court, claiming the estate of Victor St. Clair 
through direct heirship derived from his 
maternal grandmother. 

The evidence in this direction was submitted, 
and it seemed a clear case that, barring claims 
from the other side, Alexander Compton was the 
true and lawful heir. 

And how was it with the other side ? 


CHAPTER XV. 

CASPAR ON THE WAR-PATH. 

Mr. Leffington proceeded to show : 

Victor St. Clair had died, leaving a wife and 
one child. This child was a daughter, and 
named Pauline. Sixteen years later, Pauline, 
then seventeen years of age, married Paul Cam- 


Caspar on the War-Path. 


175 


bray, a French officer of some distinction, but 
apparently without her mother’s consent. It was 
said, at the time, that the mother was herself in 
love with Cambray. At all events, whether dis- 
carded or voluntarily forsaking her home, Paul- 
ine never returned after her marriage. Her hus- 
band died in Louisiana, and from that time there 
had been no trace of Rachel St. Clair’s only 
child, Pauline. In all probability she had died 
before her husband. The weight of evidence 
was in that direction. 

Mr. Leffingtop had stated his case, and put in 
his evidence, and it only remained to prove the 
identity of Alexander Compton beyond the pos- 
sibility of a doubt. That done, it would seem 
that the vast property was all his own. 

Dr. Arkwright had been present at the session 
of the court, and with a heavy heart he repaired 
to the Brookside and told Christine what had 
transpired. 

But Dr. Arkwright had not been the only 
interested spectator in court. Sitting near the 
bar, where he could hear and observe freely, had 
been a middle-aged gentleman to whom the 
judge had bowed respectfully, and whom the 


176 


Caspar on the War-Path, 


public administrator and the registrar had 
greeted cordially. This was Ralph Appleton, a 
lawyer of acknowledged ability, but whose time 
had of late been chiefly devoted to literary pur- 
suits. 

That evening, not long after the departure of 
Arkwright, Christine was informed by Lora that 
a strange gentleman wished to speak to her. 

The gentleman was admitted, and it was evi* 
dent that mutual confidence and esteem were 
the immediate result of their greeting. Christine 
looked up into a face benign and mild, and yet a 
face strong and reliable ; and he looked upon a 
girl who might have enlisted the sympathy of an 
anchorite. 

“ I address Christine St. Clair ?” he said, as he 
held her hand. 

She replied in the affirmative. 

“ My name,” he pursued, “ is Ralph Appleton. 
I have had some little experience in law, and 
have been sent to you by a woman calling her- 
self Endora. That I have obeyed her call is suf- 
ficient proof that I trust her. I feel that I can 
safely bid you trust her also. I trust, my child, 
that I may prove a helping friend. Perhaps you 


Caspar on the War-Path, 


77 


have heard of the result of this day’s investiga- 
tion at the probate court ?” 

“ I have heard, sir. Dr. Arkwright has been 
here.” 

“Yet you would claim your rights?” 

“ My true and honest rights — yes, sir !” 

“ If there had been deep and wicked plotting 
against the true intent and purpose of Rachel St. 
Clair, you would lend your influence to its ex- 
posure ?” 

“Yes, sir. Oh, yes.” 

“ Then you will trust me to enter proceedings 
in your behalf ?” 

“ In my behalf ? Oh, no, sir, not that ! I can- 
not appear so sordid, and so forgetful of all — ” 

Mr. Appleton stopped her with a wave of his 
hand. 

“ My child, you misunderstand me. Through 
you alone can we stay the conspiracy. In order 
to meet them with any promise of success we 
must hunt up evidence ; and the gathering of 
evidence will take time. In order to gain that 
time we must show to the court good reason 
for praying for a stay of proceedings. In your 
name, and in yours alone, at this present 


1 yS Caspar on the War-Path. 


time, can we appear in court. Let us throw 
your claim upon the estate out of the question. 
Without a will in your favor you have none. 
But, will you help me to unveil and discomfit 
the rascally scheme of which I have spoken — 
remembering, of course, that I will stand between 
you and all possible harm ?” 

“ Yes, sir, I will do that.” 

“ And you will authorize me to act in your 
name, as your attorney ?” 

He reached out his hand, and she took it, and 
answered him : 

“Yes, sir.” 

******* 

It was near ten o’clock on the evening of Mr. 
Appleton’s visit to the Brookside that Caspar and 
his father sat together in their retired chamber. 
They had drunk a bowl of punch, and were now 
smoking. 

“ I think, my boy,” said Alexander, “ that we 
are on a safe tack at last.” 

“ On the home-stretch, sure,” responded Cas- 
par. “ I do not see where there can be a break.” 

“Unless,” suggested the parent, “this girl, 


Caspar on the War-Path. 


79 


Christine, should give us trouble. I was told 
to-day that young Way brook swears he will stick 
to her through thick and thin.” 

“ Never you fear him,” said the son, with a 
contemptuous snap of the fingers. “ 1 have posi- 
tive knowledge that his father will cut him adrift 
if he persists in any such thing. And I have 
other knowledge : This Paul Waybrook is one of 
your easy, wayward fellows, who fall readily into 
traps baited with the right kind of excitement. 
He has been rather fast at college, and he is 
inclined to be a sport. Let him be once cut off 
from the good influences, and surrounded entirely 
by such as we can bring to bear, and we have 
him disposed of beyond his power to molest us. 
And as for the girl, we must get her out of the 
way. She can give us no lasting trouble, but she 
may perplex and delay us for a time. It remains 
to be seen whether she will find friends influen- 
tial enough to help her. Of her own accord she 
will do nothing.” 

“ And,” queried Alexander, ‘‘ suppose she does 
find friends who wish to help her? What can 
they do ? I cannot see how she can found a 
claim.” 


i8o 


Caspar on the War-Path, 


“They can force upon us,’’ answered Caspar, 
soberly, “ just what we cannot afford to meet at 
this time — delay. That is all, but it is enough.” 

“ Delay ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How ?” 

“ In the most direct and simple manner in the 
world. Were I her friend, and were I so 
inclined, I am lawyer enough to block the wheels 
of the administration of the estate for weeks, if 
not for months. There is no end to the claims 
which may be put in in her behalf. She may 
put in claim for services, and she may file the 
higher claim of an adopted child ; and, be her 
claim what it will, be sure our probate judge will 
listen to it. I know him well. He is a soft- 
hearted man, and let him deem a claimant hsts 
been unfortunate, and he will not shut his ears.” 

“ If this girl can so perplex matters,” said 
Compton, “ we owe it to ourselves to — ” 

“ Easy,” interrupted Caspar, putting out his 
hand. “ She shall be attended to. As yet I am 
sure she has had no movement made in her 
behalf, and to-morrow I will see her. If she will 
accept my hand, all right. If she will not, then 


Caspar on the War-Path. 


i8i 


I must do the next best thing — I must capture 
her. So let us consider her case settled. With 
her out of the way we have not a thing to fear.’' 

“ If she should escape us she can offer ng seri- 
ous obstacle to our success?” 

“ Only to temporarily perplex and annoy us. 
With the will in her favor lacking, she has not 
the shadow of a valid claim. But she shall not 
be left to annoy us.” 

* > * * * * 

At the same hour, Hon. Nathan Way brook 
sat in his library awaiting the arrival of his son, 
in quest of whom he had sent a servant. He 
was pale with suppressed emotion, and his hands 
were clenched until the finger-nails fairly eat into 
the palms. At length Paul entered. He, too, 
gave token of suppressed emotion ; but, unlike his 
father, his face was hotly flushed. 

The most casual and superficial student of 
human nature might have predicted danger in 
the coming together in opposition of those two 
men. He could have told that one was as 
powder, and the other as fire. He might have 


1 82 Caspar o?i the War-Path. 

told, had he known them well, that both were 
head-strong and proud. 

“Paul Waybrook!” commenced the father, 
austerely, and with lowering aspect, “ I have a 
question to ask. I think I may give you the 
credit of truthfulness.” 

“ I am not aware, sir,” replied the youth, 
proudly, and with a touch of defiance in his 
manner, “ that l am a liar.” 

“Then you will answer me this : Have you 
seen the Brookside girl since our last confer- 
ence?” 

“ I have, sir.” 

“ Will you tell me what was the object of your 
visit?” 

“ I went to cheer and comfort her.” 

“ Did you go still as her lover?” 

Paul raised himself to his full stature, and 
spoke frankly and boldly. His eyes flashed, and 
the flush upon his handsome face was deeper 
than before. 

“ I have sworn to be true and faithful to 
Christine St. Clair. The vow was made with 
your knowledge and consent. You had the 
right to give that consent, but you have not th« 


Caspar on the War-Path. 183 

right — you have not the power — to cause me now 
to break my faith with that pure-minded, noble 
girl !" 

“Not the power?" gasped Mr. Waybrook, 
clutching the edge of the table. 

“ You have not the power, sir !" replied Paul, 
firmly. He did not quail nor flinch ; and if he 
trembled, it was not with fear. 

Nathan Waybrook arose to his feet. For the 
moment it seemed as though he would strike the 
boy to the floor ; but he drew back, and caught 
the rim of his chair. 

“ Paul !" he whispered, but the whisper was 
terrible in its intensity of volume, “ this inter- 
view must be brief, as I see plainly that you are 
in no mood for reason. Are you determined to 
adhere to your vows to that girl ?" 

“ 1 am, sir." 

“ In spite of my commands 

“ In spite of any and every opposition, I will 
be true to Christine !" 

“ Turn to that girl, and you turn from me !" 

“ Then be it so !" 

“ Paul ! Are you serious ?" 

“ I am." 


184 Caspar on the War-Path, 


Nathan Waybrook stamped his foot upon the 
floor. His pent-up rage burst forth in a torrent, 
and he was the more vehement in his anger 
because his son had stood so resolute. In his 
own heart — deep down where he had sought to 
smother the emotion — he felt that the boy was 
actuated by a true and manly spirit, which had 
come in contact with a spirit of worldliness on 
his part ; and this made him angry with himself, 
though the storm was to burst upon the son. 
He could not surrender without backing 
squarely down — a thing he could never do — and 
as he had never yet been known openly to 
acknowledge himself in error, it was not to be 
supposed that he would do so in this case. That 
he really meant to banish his son forever from 
the old rooftree, we do not suppose. Men in a 
rage strike out with little thought of other result 
than conquest. He had hoped — perhaps he had 
believed — that Paul would submit to the first 
condition of obedience ; but, since such submis- 
sion was denied, there remained only the second 
condition of banishment. If he shrank, he was 
conquered. He would not be conquered, and 
he would not shrink. 


Caspar on the War-Path, 


185 


* * * * 

•Paul Waybrook left his father’s presence. 
The iron had eaten into his soul, and he walked 
as though his limbs had been transmuted into 
steel. Words cruel and scathing had fallen upon 
his ears, and he felt that he never wished to see 
his father again. He would not sleep another 
night beneath the roof from which he had been 
peremptorily banished. He went to his cham- 
ber and gathered up such valuables as belonged 
to him — such as he could transport with ease — 
and then went out into the night — and he experi- 
enced a sense of relief when the feeling came to 
him that he was free from the paternal restraint. 
God pity the boy ! — God pity the father ! — when 
from the government of the household this thing 
comes to pass ! 

Paul carried a traveling bag in his hand, and 
took his way down by the Brookside ; but no 
lights were burning in the cottage. He then 
turned toward the city. Once a policeman 
stopped him, and asked him who he was, and 
what he carried in his bag. The youth’s first 
impulse was wrathful ; but a sober, second 


1 86 Caspar on the War-Path, 

thought turned him into a safer channel. He 
answered respectfully, and was suffered to pass 
on. In. the city he found lodging at a respect- 
able hotel where he was well known — where he 
had spent many a merry hour with his boon 
companions, and where his presence was always 
hailed with warm and cheerful welcome. 
Though it was past midnight when he entered, 
he found the host and his assistants up, it having 
been the occasion of the re-union of a social club, 
and no sooner had he deposited his luggage than 
several friends surrounded and captured him. 

His capture was easy. He had come heavy- 
hearted and weary, and the tempter found him 
in pliant mood. The sparkling of wit and bois- 
terous friendship startled him from the slough of 
sadness, and in the sparkling bowl he plunged his 
every care. 

Paul had resolved that, on the morrow, he 
would see Christine, and, having told her what 
had occurred, plan with her for the future ; but 
the morrow had already come when he sought 
his pillow, and the afternoon thereof was well 
advanced when he awoke. His head ached, and 
his lips were parched and when he had bathed 


Caspar on the War-Path. 187 

his brow and face, and arranged his dress, he 
rang for a servant and ordered brandy and sugar 
and hot water. A few glasses of the powerful 
stimulant lifted him above his pains, and raised 
his spirits, and he went down and ate dinner. It 
was now late in the afternoon — too late to go 
out to the Brookside — or, perhaps, as he looked 
into the mirror, he fancied that by the coming of 
another morrow he might look better. His eyes 
were bleared, and he did not look well anyway. 
He sat down and read awhile, and began to feel 
gloomy. A friend came in and slapped him on 
the shoulder, and proposed a drink. He did not 
refuse. He drank and talked, and then drank 
again. Evening came, and found him jolly as a 
lord. Midnight came again, and he was upon a 
chair with a glass in his hand trying to make a 
speech. He couldn't speak to his own satisfac- 
tion, and he essayed a convivial song, which was 
also a failure. 

But then this thing was not to last. Oh, no ! 
Young men who have been well brought up don't 
go into such riot of dissipation with the thought 
of continuing therein — never ! 


1 88 Caspar on the War-Path, 


But if Paul Way brook was thus incapacitated, 
there was another who was mindful of the maiden 
of the Brookside. On this day which Paul spent 
at the hotel, Caspar Hugo was busy. 

“ Look you,” said his father, as he made ready 
to go away in the morning, “ do you think to win 
the girl’s love by your blandishments?” 

Caspar smiled in reply. 

“ I am serious,” pursued the other. “ I have 
had experience, and I know something of these 
girls. From what you have yourself told me I 
am confident Christine St. Clair will spurn you. 
You say her lover is in difficulty, that his father 
swears against the union. Be sure that will only 
make — ” 

Caspar had listened thus far with a significant 
smile upon his lips. He raised his hand and 
interrupted with : 

“ Hold on, old fellow. You are wise touching 
the female sex. You understand the girl to per- 
fection ; but you don’t understand me. If you 
fancy that I intend to go fishing after that sort of 
game with sweet words, you are mistaken. If I 
had time I might venture upon the undertaking ; 
but the matter is pressing. Under present cir- 


Caspar on the War-Path. 


189 


cumstances I have resolved to harpoon my fish, 
and take it aboard off-hand. After that I’ll use 
honey if it can be of use.” 

Compton’s face brightened. 

“ You’re a trump, my boy ! You’ll do. Go in 
and play your leading card first.” 

Caspar went first to an eating-house and par- 
took of a light breakfast, and then he went to his 
office, where he found, among some old files, a 
letter written by the hand of Christine St. Clair 
— a mere business missive, dictated by Madame 
Rachel. With this letter he retired to the pri 
vate closet and shut himself in, and there applied 
himself to the work of writing a letter in imita- 
tion of the model he had selected ; a model not 
of substance or style, but only of chirography. 
He wrote two pages, and destroyed them ; but 
the third effort pleased him better. This last he 
folded, and placed it in a small white envelope 
and upon the envelope he wrote the name — 

Paul Waybrook 

— wrote it in the same fine, delicate hand which 
he had been copying. This he put into a second 


1 90 Caspar on the War-Path, 

envelope, and having secured it in his pocket- 
book, he returned to the outer office. Shortly 
afterward the attorney who had taken the chief 
direction of Halford’s affairs came in, and Caspar 
went out, as he said, upon a matter of individual 
business. 

He took a car for Roxbury, and went directly 
and boldly to the Brookside Cottage, and asked 
to see Miss Christine. Lora admitted him to the 
drawing-room, and called her mistress. 

Christine, when she knew who had called to 
see her, sought to conceal her repugnance, 
though it was with an effort so great as to be 
entirely evident to the visitor. His presence 
made her shudder. She had been thus impressed 
the first time she saw him, and at each subse- 
quent meeting the impression had deepened and 
strengthened. 

Caspar Hugo was gifted with strong powers 
of penetration, and he was now slow to perceive 
that his presence was distasteful to the maiden ; 
but he made no sign, nor did the discovery 
serve to lessen his admiration of her surpassing 
beauty. In fact, her distaste rather served to 
intensify his purpose of possessing her. At first, 


Caspar on the War-Path. 191 

there had been a slight shadow of justice resting 
upon, and giving color to, his plan of union with 
Christine. He would thus share with her the 
property of which he had deprived her by the 
destruction of the will. 

On the present occasion, Caspar greeted the 
lady very deferentially, and having inquired after 
her health, he informed her that he would make 
his business known in as brief a manner as possi- 
ble. He stated that he had a thorough knowl- 
edge of Mr. Halford’s business matters, and that 
as he proposed to enter into the practice of law 
on his own account, he should be peculiarly 
qualified, as well as extremely happy, to render 
her any assistance that she might require at his 
hands. In short, if she proposed to take any 
steps toward resisting the administration of the 
estate in favor of the claimant from New 
Orleans, she might depend upon him to assist 
her to the best of his ability. 

Christine was not what we usually denominate 
worldly wise. She was impulsively truthful, and 
had never learned to conceal that which be- 
longed to the right. Her answer was prompt 
and to the point: 


192 Caspar on the War-Path, 

“ I shall not require your services, sir.” 

Excuse me, madam. If I might be so bold, 
suffer me to advise you. I think there is much 
to be gained by well-directed efforts on your 
part.” 

Christine made a movement ot impatience, but 
the visitor continued, with an appearance of 
deepest friendly interest : 

“ Pardon me, lady. I would not have ventured 
upon this business had I not believed that it was 
in the heart of your foster-mother to make you 
her heir. Do you not owe it to her to take some 
steps in the matter?” 

Notwithstanding the man’s extreme friendli- 
ness of speech, there was a gleaming of his evil 
eyes which caused the maiden to shrink and 
shudder more and more. 

“ 1 thank you, sir,” she said, arising as she 
spoke, “ for your kind offer in my behalf ; but I 
shall not require your services.” 

“ Perhaps you have legal counsel already 
engaged ?” 

“ I have friends, sir, who are better qualified to 
judge for me in that matter than I am to judge 
for myself.” 


Caspar on the War-Path, 193 

And you have placed the whole matter in 
their hands, I suppose ?’' 

“ They will act as they think proper and best.” 

As Christine thus spoke, she plainly indicated 
by her manner that the interview had lasted 
long enough ; and her visitor, with renewed 
protestations of friendship and proffers of assist- 
ance, bowed himself out. 

‘‘ I have gained a point there !” muttered Cas- 
par to himself, as he left the cottage. “ A move- 
ment is to be made in her behalf ! We’ll see if it 
cannot be nipped in the bud !’' 

He took Elmside Hall in his way on his return, 
feeling sure that the Hon. Mr. Waybrook would 
not be at home ; and yet he inquired for that 
gentleman of the servant who answered his sum- 
mons. When informed that Mr. Waybrook w^as 
absent, he inquired for the son. But Mr. Paul 
was also absent. 

He was very sorry. He had important intelli- 
gence to communicate touching the Brookside 
matter. Upon hearing this, the servant was eager 
and inquisitive; and in the end Caspar gained 
all the knowledge he desired, without greatly 
stretching the truth in his counter communica- 


194 


Caspar on the War-Path. 


tions. He learned that there had been a rupture 
between father and son, and that the latter had 
left the house, the servant confidently believed, 
never to come back. 

After this, Caspar lost no time in returning to 
the city, and an hour’s search among the hotel 
runners gave him to know the whereabouts of 
Paul Way brook, and also furnished him with 
reliable information concerning Paul’s then pres- 
ent condition. 

The lover would not venture to the Brookside 
that evening, at all events. 

At his office, just as the day was closing, Cas- 
par wrote another note, this time taking for a 
model of chirography a brief missive in the hand 
of Paul Way brook. He closed the task with a 
glow of exultation upon his sinister face — sinister 
now with the deep plottings that left their 
impress there — and then arose and bent his steps 
toward his chambers, where he found his father 
in waiting. 

Ah, my boy, you seem satisfied.’* 

Satisfied if you can help me, old fellow. 
Do you feel strong to-night?” 

“ Never stronger, my son.” 


In the Toils, 


19S 


“Then prepare for work. You will want a 
disguise of the deepest kind.” 

“ Where are you going ?” 

“To the Brookside !” 

“ Ha ! What’s up ?” 

“Wait until I wet my whistle, and you shall 
hear. Get the brandy, old fellow, and mix it hot. 
Fortune favors us !” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

IN THE TOILS. 

All the evening Christine had been looking for 
Paul. During the day she had learned from 
Lora that her lover had had trouble with his 
father, and had left the paternal roof. Lora had 
received her information from John Downey, 
who had obtained it from one of the Elmside 
servants. Our heroine had been schooling her- 
self to meet the emergency, but she had desired 
to see Paul before open rupture took place. 
She had convinced herself that it was her duty 


1 


196 In the Toils, 

to release him from the engagement to her. 
She deemed that she should make the release 
peremptory — that she should demand it. She 
would not come in between parent and child. 
Her own life-long orphanage had led her to 
reverence the sacred ties of paternity. She did 
not feel that Mr. Way brook had done rightly or 
justly ; but he was possessed of authority, and he 
had chosen to exercise it. 

Christine hoped Paul would come. She 
would try and make his burden lighter by restor- 
ing him to his home. She knew full well that 
her own heart must break under the ordeal ; 
but it was hei" part to .suffer. The calamity 
which had occasioned the trouble should be hers 
alone. It belonged to her, and she would 
endure it. 

Could there have been lurking in her heart a 
secret hope that Paul would not suffer himself to 
be turned from her; that even her entreaties 
would fail to shake him. If such a hope there 
was, she did not know it. She did not realize 
that the very strength which enabled her to plan 
so soberly for separation, came of an inward, 
hidden consciousness, born of her great love, and 


In the Toils. 


197 


Ir ■ ' 


her great faith in Paul, that he would never 
break the solemn vow. 

Christine’s meditations were broken in upon by 
a sharp click in the corner, as a tiny door above 
the face of the old clock flew open. She looked 
up, and saw the little wooden cuckoo swing out, 
and she counted the flute-like chimes which told 
that it was ten o’clock. Surely Paul would not 
come after that hour. 

She arose, and went to the window and looked 
out. There was no moon, and most of the stars 
were hidden beneath a vail of clouds. She was 
in the act of turning from the window, when she 
was startled by a rap upon the outer door. Had 
the summons been by the usual medium of the 
bell, she would have waited for a servant to 
answer it, but this rap was significant. She 
thought of Paul, and without further thought, 
she went to the door and opened it. By the 
glimmer of the hall lamp, she saw a boy standing 
upon the piazza. She could not distinguish his 
features, because, either by design or accident, 
he shrank away from the direct light. 

“ I want to see Miss St. Clair,” he said. 

“ 1 am Miss St. Clair.” 


198 


In the Toils, 


‘‘ Then I’ve got a letter for you, and I’ll wait 
for an answer.” 

The boy was very modest in his speech, and 
exceedingly deferential. 

“Who is it from?” asked Christine, as she 
reached out her hand to take it. 

“ From a young gentleman, ma’am, who said I 
was to wait for an answer. He is out by the 
hedge beyond the lawn.” 

Christine asked the lad if he would come into 
the hall while she read the note ; but he pre- 
ferred not. He would rather stand where he 
was. He liked the fresh air. 

Without further remark, the maiden retired to 
the drawing-room, where, beneath the mantel 
lamp, she opened the missive, and read as 
follows : 

“Dear Christine: Perhaps you have heard 
that my father has turned me from his doors ; 
but know that he has no power to turn my heart 
from you. I will be true to the end. Yet, from 
circumstances which I cannot here explain, I 
cannot come to your cottage to-night. But you 
can come to me, just for one brief minute. I 


hi the Toils, 


199 

must see you — I have an important matter to 
communicate. The boy who brings this will 
lead you to me. You may trust him fully. He 
is an honest fellow, and devoted to me. I shall 
wait for you. But, perhaps, I ought to explain, 
for your understanding, that I am under a sol- 
emn pledge to my father, that I will not visit 
the Brookside Cottage for two days. But that 
will not prevent you from coming to 

Paul.” 

The thought that this might not be Paul’s 
hand-writing never presented itself to Christine’s 
mind. The fact that Paul had written, and was 
waiting for her, she accepted at the outset. And 
yet the substance of the note troubled her. It 
did not sound like Paul. As she had known him 
he would not seek thus by subterfuge to break 
faith with his father. She felt that it was her 
duty to chide him for this. 

She thought of Paul as an outcast for her sake, 
and she could not refuse to go to him. She got 
her hat and mantle, and went softly out upon the 
piazza. She found the boy in waiting, and told 
him that she would follow him ; but before she 


200 


In the Toils. 


stepped from the piazza she asked him if he knew 
who had entrusted him with the letter. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It was Mr. Paul 
Waybrook.” 

“ And what is your name ?” 

“ Sammy Chadwick. My mother was Mr. 
Paul’s nurse when he had the fever.” 

Christine had never heard Paul speak of Mrs. 
Chadwick, nor did she remember anything of his 
fever ; but she did not doubt the boy ; and she 
told him to lead on. 

It was dark when they got away from the 
house ; Christine kept close upon the heels of her 
guide. They gained the hedge of arbor-vitae, 
and passed through the opening to the farther 
side, which was next to the highway. Here the 
boy stopped and looked around. 

“ I left him here,” he said. “ Ah ! there he 
comes !” and he pointed toward the road. 

And toward the road Christine turned and 
looked, w^hile from out the shadow^ of the hedge, 
directly behind her, leaped two men, one of whom 
threw a thick robe over her head, while the other 
took her in his arms and bore her away. The 



L 





In the Toils. 


201 


man who had thrown the robe next turned to the 
boy and gave him a second letter. 

“Take this, Dick, and leave it on the table, if 
3^011 can. If you can’t reach the table, do the 
next best thing. You know what is wanted.” 

The boy took the letter and departed, while 
the man rejoined his companion just in time to 
assist in lifting the girl into a hack which had 
been drawn up upon the roadside. The stouter 
of the two men entered with her, and the other 
immediately followed. She struggled with all 
her might — and her strength was considerable — 
but it was of no avail against the power of the 
two strong men who held her, one of whom sat 
upon the seat by her side, holding her head and 
shoulders, while the other sat before her render- 
ing it impossible for her to move even a foot. 
The door was shut tight, and the driver mounted 
to his box and drove away. 

At length the man who sat by her side said : 

“ I’m going to remove my hand from your 
mouth, and let you breathe ; but if you make the 
least bit of noise I’ll smother you worse than 
3"0u are smothered now.” 

Christine was sorely frightened, but she was 


202 


In the Toils, 


not deprived of sense. She had control over her 
reason sufficient to show her that forcible resist- 
ance on her part could do her no good. Against 
the two strong men she could do nothing, and 
the instinctive conclusion in her logical mind 
was that the men who could inaugurate such an 
outrage would not stop at crime to insure suc- 
cess. So she did not cry out, though she tried 
to free herself from the painful grasp of her tor- 
mentors. 

The hand was removed from over her mouth, 
but the covering was not thrown from her head. 
She showed by her struggling that she sought 
to remove the suffocating hood, and her com- 
panion understood her. 

By and by,” said he, when we strike the 
pavements. I’ll take off the robe ; but, mind, if 
you make a particle of noise, I’ll make it worse 
for you than you’ve found it yet.” 

Soon the pavements were struck, and the 
hood was removed ; but Christine could see 
nothing. The curtains of the coach were closed, 
and the blinds drawn up over the windows. She 
only knew that the two men were with her, and 
that she was being driven rapidly away from 


' In the Toils. 


203 


her home. If she thought of asking any ques- 
tions, the loud clang and rattle of the wheels 
upon the cobble-stone pavement admonished her 
that she might have to raise her voice high 
enough to incur the penalty of being again 
smothered, and she held her peace. But she 
held it with pain and anguish unutterable. In 
the darkness and the whirl, with the pain-giving 
clutch of her captors upon her limbs, her 
thoughts were busy ; and if they had not logical 
sequence, they at least grasped stern facts, with 
deductions that were not entirely illogical. And 
the events of which she thought were dark and 
gloomy ones. Caspar Hugo was her enemy ; 
Endora and Appleton were her friends ; and 
Hugo had learned of their interference in her 
behalf, and had resorted to this method of over- 
coming it. His visit to her during the day had 
been only for the purpose of sounding her and 
for laying his plans. The letter bearing Paul’s 
signature had been a forgery. 

She had arrived at this point in her wildly 
whirling fancies, and was thanking fortune that 
Paul had not written the unworthy words, when 
the coach stopped, and, before she could make a 


204 


In the Toils, • 


motion to prevent it, the thick robe was again 
thrown over her head, and very soon she was 
lifted out upon a hard sidewalk and hurried 
away through a narrow passage. She knew it 
was narrow by the manner in which her con- 
ductors were forced to crowd their way. At 
length, a door was unlocked and opened, and she 
was led into a small hall, and then up a flight of 
contracted stairs ; thence up another flight, until 
finally, she was led into a small chamber, where 
the hood was removed from her head, and a 
voice said to her: Sit down !'" and a hand 

pushed her back into a chair ; and she was so 
weak that she did not attempt to rise. It was a 
rocking-chair, low and easy, and she sank back 
with a smothered sob. 

“ Easy, my lady! You’re past all harm and 
danger. You are in a castle where no power on 
earth can come to ruffle the smooth waters of 
the fate I have in store for you.” 

She knew the voice. She looked up, and by 
the light of a single candle which stood upon a 
small table near them, she saw Caspar Hugo. 
She did not start as she might have started at 
some terror unexpected, for this man had occu- 


In the Toils, 


205 


pied her thoughts, and she had associated him 
with the present calamity. Of all the people she 
had ever seen or known, she had not known 
another whom she thought so base and wicked 
as the man now before her. She looked upon 
him, and she saw him exactly as she had seen 
him on that day when he had first come to the 
Brookside with his master. He was dressed 
very nearly the same, and his face wore the same 
serpent-like expression, and the beaming of his 
eyes was as ophidious as then, save that now 
there was more than malevolence in them. 

She looked at him and then she glanced 
around the room. It was small, and the ceiling 
was low, and the only furniture consisted of a 
few chairs and a small table. There were two 
doors, upon opposite sides of the room. One 
was shut and one was open. Through that 
which was closed she had probably entered. 
Beyond the other she saw another apartment, 
and the corner-post of a bed. The walls were 
pierced for no windows ; but upon looking 
up\Vard she saw a small square window over- 
head. The ceiling was sloping, and the window 
was in the roof of the house. And she observed 


2o6 


hi the Toils, 


that it was guarded by stout iron bars, like the 
bars of a prison. They were ominous, and she 
shuddered when she saw them. Caspar observed 
the glance and the shudder. 

Those bars,” he said, were put there for 
protection. Thieves have been known to break 
through skylights ; but they can’t break through 
this one.” 

Having thus attracted the maiden’s attefition, 
he proceeded, calling her by name with easy 
familiarity : 

** And now, Christine, I have no doubt you 
would like to know what all this means.” 

The familiar tone aroused her indignation, and 
gave her strength. But she answered him only 
with silent attention. If it was his purpose to 
inform her, he would probably do so. 

He seemed to understand her, and presently 
continued : 

It is late, and I know you must be fatigued, 
and I shall tell you the whole story in a very few 
words. I need not tell you that you are beauti- 
ful ; but I may tell you that the very first time I saw 
you I thought you the most beautiful girl I had 
ever seen ; and I think the same still. I thought 


hi the Toils. 


207 

to myself that I should be the happiest man alive, 
if I could possess you for my own ; though at that 
time I did not dream that the thing could ever 
come to pass. But the events of life are not at 
our own disposal. I may tell you further, that 
I feel desperately in love with you — so you may 
safely conclude that I cannot mean you harm. 
On the contrary, I mean to make you a bed 
of roses, and be your slave for life. Do not 
abuse the power I thus willingly place in your 
hands.” 

Christine found it hard to restrain her burning 
indignation at these words, so trippingly and so 
unctuously spoken ; but she clutched her fingers 
until the delicate bones cracked, and held her 
peace. 

“You know, my dear girl,” Caspar went on, 
“ how I was first called to the Brookside ; and 
you know what has since transpired. I may 
remark, however, that the most poignant blow 
my heart ever received came in the knowledge 
that you were solemnly affianced to young Way- 
brook. I learned that Mr. Way brook the elder 
had forbidden the union of his son with yourself. 
Aye, that he had sworn to cast off the boy for- 


2o8 


In the Toils, 


ever if he persisted in pursuing the alliance. I 
saw that if Paul Waybrook should make you his 
wife, he would wed you and himself to lasting 
misery. But it was not needed that I should 
interfere for him. He has chosen his own course. 
Of his own accord he has forsaken both his 
home and you, and plunged into reckless dissi- 
pation.” 

Christine started to her feet, her hands 
clutched, and her eyes flaming. 

“ Let him pass,” said Caspar, with a wave of 
the hand, “ I will save him if I can. I heard 
from him this evening, and he was Avith his riot- 
ing companions at the club. He’s taking it easy, 
I assure you.” 

Christine had known Paul’s one weakness, and 
she dared not deny the man’s assertion. But 
that he had deserted her — she knew it was false. 
His father’s harshness had driven him to the sor- 
row. She sank back, and covered her face with 
her hands. 

‘‘You may not be aware,” continued Caspar, 
after a pause, “ how much assistance I have ren- 
dered to the heir of Madame Rachel’s estate. It 
was through my means entirely that he became 


In the Toils, 


209 


aware of his heirship, and I have helped him at 
every step — helped him by legal means. And 
now let me give you the sum of the whole mat- 
ter. I did not assist Alexander Compton with- 
out being mindful of you. I told him your 
claims, and urged him to consider them. And 
now mark his response : He considers us both, 
and he says if you and I will marry he will give 
to us one-half the estate. Do you begin to 
understand T 

Christine looked at him in blank amazement. 

Mr. Compton is a curious man,” said Caspar. 
“ He cares for me, and he cares for you, and he 
will serve both, or neither ; and he will serve us 
only in this way. Can you wonder that, under 
the circumstance, I resolved to possess you? 
And you must not blame me for the method 1 
have pursued. I knew you better than you 
knew yourself. Had I left you at the cottag^e 
you would have fled at the first note of alarm ; 
and whither would you have gone? Do you 
not see that I have saved you? Had I spoken 
to you of love at the Brookside, you would have 
spurned me, not knowing me, and so I chose to 
meet you upon ground of my own selecting. 


210 


In the Toils. 


You need rest now, and you may rest here in 
safety. I will send you a female friend in the 
morning.” 

As he turned away Christine started again to 
her feet. 

‘‘ What — do you mean, sir — ” 

“ I mean,” he said, as the words stuck in her 
throat, “ that you go not hence, except as my 
wife. You may as well know and be prepared 
for it.” 

She could not answer him. She could only 
see him depart, and hear him lock the door 
behind him, and then sink back into the chair. 
The fate was overwhelming — more than she 
could clearly consider. That she was in the 
power of an accomplished villain was now 
apparent. Of his audacity she had received 
ample proof; and of his purpose she had no 
doubt; but, would a just God permit him to 
triumph over her? In that extreme hour her 
first thought of help was heavenward ; and this 
gave her strength of mind to think of such help 
as might be vouchsafed through her own en- 
deavors. 


Searching, 


^11 


CHAPTER XVII. 

SEARCHING. 

On the second morning of Paul Way brook *s 
sojourn at the hotel he awoke sober and repent- 
ant. He did not think longingly or regretfully 
of home, for he had, for the time, at least, cast out 
all love for it. No mother was there to soothe 
with tender words his troubled spirit, and cool 
with gentle touch his throbbing brow. No 
mother’s love made sacred the hearthstone, and no 
mother’s smile made sunshine in the circle. He 
thought of his mother on this morning of pain 
and self-condemnation, and he thought how 
gladly he would confess his sin, and ask her for- 
giveness. Ah ! how she had forgiven him in the 
other days, and how, by her love, had she led him 
out from many a wayward danger! But he 
could claim her love no more on earth. He 
thought of her as one sanctified in the better 
world, and he dared not pray there that she might 


212 


Searching, 


look down upon him. No — he rather prayed that 
she might be spared the sight. 

Of his father he would not think. Shut up in 
his heart was the feeling that his father had 
deeply wronged him, and he cared not to bring 
it into light. He would keep it shut up if he 
could. 

But there was one to whom he owed a deeper 
and purer faith than he had been keeping for the 
past six-and-thirty hours. He must go and see 
Christine without delay. All his hopes of happi- 
ness in life were centered in her. He would see 
her, and tell to her just what had happened, and 
he would urge her to set forth with him upon the 
voyage of the new life. The anniversary of his 
birth was past. It had occurred on the da}’- 
before he had been turned from his father’s house. 
He was one-and-twenty, a free man, and the 
money he had inherited from his maternal grand- 
father was his. With that he could start. The 
thought inspired him, and he dressed himself 
speedily. A single glass of brandy was necessary 
to steady his nerves before he could eat anything. 
He would drink that, and drink no more. 

The brandy — two glasses, however, instead of 


Searching. 


213 


one, for he had found himself more shaken than 
he had thought — and the breakfast were disposed 
of, and then, having submitted himself to the 
manipulations of the barber, Paul walked out. 
His first movement was to the office of the banker 
who had held his funds in trust under the guardi- 
anship of his father. The banker was at his desk, 
and was glad to see him. 

A few passing remarks upon the topics of the 
day, and Paul broached the subject of especial 
interest. 

“ It has all been fixed, my dear sir, in most 
proper manner," said the banker, “ and we shall 
be happy to honor your draft, or to do any other 
business you may favor us with." 

Without exposing his entire ignorance of what 
had been done, he led the banker to tell the story, 
from which it appeared that his father had taken 
all legal steps necessary to the transferring of the 
entire control of the funds to him. 

Your father was very precise and methodi- 
cal," remarked the banker. “ He wished us to 
understand that he claimed no more authority, 
and should assume no further responsibility. He 
said you were to be henceforth your own man. 


214 


Searching. 


I didn’t know but that he would finish the joke 
by informing us that he should pay no more 
debts of your contracting.” 

The broker laughed, and Paul tried to respond 
in like manner, though the effort was, on the 
whole, a failure. He learned, however, that the 
original deposit of twenty thousand dollars had 
grown to be thirty thousand ; and after this he 
managed to smile quite naturally. But he was 
not in want of money then, though he might be 
in a few days, as he had thoughts of going into 
business. He took some blank checks, of which 
duplicate numbers were taken upon the banker’s 
book, and also left a copy of his autograph. 

The world seemed very bright to Paul Way- 
brook as he left the banker’s office. He was 
wealthy in his own estimation. There was no 
pressing need of his going into business. With 
Christine for his wife he could procure a com- 
fortable, cosy home a little way out in the coun- 
try, and live upon the interest of his money ; 
and, under the inspiration of the thought, he 
snapped his fingers, and hummed to himself a 
verse of “ Begone, Dull CareS But the ebullition 
was not lasting. He grew more sober and 


Searching, 


215 


thoughtful as he left the city behind him, not so 
much with fear of possible disappointment as 
with the weight of the new responsibility which 
had dawned upon him. The exhilarating effects 
of the brandy he had drunk before breakfast had 
subsided, and a sense of weakness and unsteadi- 
ness, resulting from the night’s dissipation, had 
succeeded. He felt sadly the need — so he thought 
— of just one more glass ; but he remembered his 
resolution, and he would remain firm. He had 
danced, and now he must pay the fiddler. 

He did not go out over the Neck, as he cared 
not to meet many acquaintances, but he took the 
mid-forenoon train by the Providence road, stop- 
ping at Roxbury station, so that he reached the 
Brookside shortly after eleven o’clock. He 
looked to see Christine upon the piazza as he 
approached the cottage ; but she was not visible. 
He went around into the garden, and she was not 
there. He went in by the rear porch, and found 
Lora alone and in tears. 

“ Oh, Mars’r Paul, does ye know where Miss 
Christine can be ?” 

Paul sat down under the blow. But she mi^ht 


2I6 


Efidora on the Trail, 


be searching for him ; and he gained strength, 
and stood up. 

“ What is it, Lora } Where is your mistress?” 

“ Sure, mars’r, I don’t know ; but she’s been 
gone all night, and John and Pete hab looked 
eb’ry where for her. Bar’s a letter in de drawin’- 
room for you.” 

From her ?” 

“ She must ’a’ left it when she went away.” 

Paul hastened to the drawing-room, followed 
by Lora, and upon the centre-table he found the 
note, addressed to himself. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

ENDORA ON THE TRAIL. 

Paul tore the letter open, and read as follows : 

“ Dear Paul : When you find this I shall be 
far away. Do not blame me for the step I have 
taken. 1 do it for your good. I sacrifice all for 
you. I cannot separate father and son. Return 


Endora on the TraiL 


217 


to your home, and strive to forget one who can 
never be more to you than a friend of the past. 
I have considered this matter seriously. I know 
that I have no claim upon the estate of my fos- 
ter-mother, and I will not be a pensioner upon 
the bounty of those who are to succeed to the 
property. Nor, dear Paul, can I consent to 
drag you down to the social grade you would 
enter by marrying me. I will not permit myself 
to be made a lasting barrier between father and 
son. The yoke which took you from your home 
and deprived you of your patrimony, would 
very soon gall you beyond bearing, and then, 
alas for the unfortunate cause of your distress ! 
I cannot — I will not. I am resolved ! I have 
found a friend with whom I shall leave this sec- 
tion of country at once, so all search for me will 
be fruitless. Forget me and be happy. I shall 
find happiness if I can. Return to your father, 
and thus obey the last prayer, in your behalf, of 

Christine.” 

Again Paul sank down as though under a 
heavy blow. 

“ What IS it, mars’r ?” 


2i8 


Endora on the Trail, 


“ She has gone !” 

‘‘Where?” 

“ Gone away — far away. Fled from her 
home !” 

While he sat with the letter in his hand, 
John Downey entered; and to John the matter 
was explained. The gardener was a cool-headed 
man, though not over bright. He reflected a 
while, and then suggested that search should be 
made. He thought it would be a good plan to 
put the matter into the hands of the chief of 
police. 

“ How !” cried Paul. “ Put the police upon 
the track of a maiden who has chosen to flee 
from a home that had become oppressive to 
her?” 

“ I ain’t so sure of that,” replied John, with a 
sort of dogged pertinacity. “ Miss Christine 
didn’t show no signs yesterday of such a move ; 
and it wouldn’t have been like her to go off in 
that fashion without even a word of partin’ to 
Lora or me.” 

“ ’Deed, it wouldn’t,” declared Lora. “ If 
she’d a meant to go off for good an’ all, she’d 
nebber’ a’ gone widout a word to me — nebber !” 


Efidora on the Trail. 


219 


“ But,” urged Paul, “ you cannot suspect foul 
play ?” 

“ I don't know why,” responded John. “ I 
can’t say as how there’s been any foul play at 
all ; but it looks mightily like it, nevertheless. 
In the first place, I ain’t satisfied ’at Eben San- 
ders an’ Seth Davis went off of their own free 
will and accord. I may have thought ’twas all 
fair in the beginnin’, but I don’t think so now. 
And it’s mighty strange, to say the least, that 
old Mr. Halford, madame’s lawyer, should have 
stepped out just that particular time, when he 
was well enough before. And I don’t forget the 
man that was killed on the railroad. I tell you, 
sir, there’s monkery somewhere.” 

“ But,” said Paul, as soon as he could breathe, 

here we have Christine’s own letter.” 

“ I don’t care nothing for that,” asserted John, 
flatly. “ The question is : What made her 
write it ? I don’t say she hain’t gone ; but I do 
say that somebody else has had a finger in the 
pie.” 

Paul started, and his whole frame was con- 
vulsed. 

“ John, do you suspect my father?” 


2 20 


Endora on the Trail, 


The gardener was very guarded and deliberate 
in his answer. 

I don’t think, sir, that your father would have 
done anything of the kind — that is, not know- 
ingly ; but how far he might lend a sort of winkin’ 
help, you can judge better than I.” 

In the end, Paul resolved to enlist the aid of the 
police. He called upon the chief of police, gave 
him an explanation of the whole matter, and 
asked what could be done toward finding Chris- 
tine. He made no complaint ; he suggested no 
probable culprit; he asked only that the girl 
might be found. 

And we may here remark just how much the 
officers found. They learned that a close car- 
riage, drawn by two horses, had been driven 
away from the Brookside on the night of Chris- 
tine’s disappearance, and that it had gone over 
the Tremont Road into Boston. This they 
learned, and nothing more, for they had no clew 
by which to direct even a suspicion. 

Meantime, however, came one who brought 
new and peculiar qualifications for the search ; 
and though she came as a stranger to John 
Downey, he hesitated not to trust her. As for 


Endora on the Trail, 


22 1 


Lora, she welcomed the helper with supersti- 
tious awe. It was the old woman called Endora 
who had appeared upon the scene, and Lora 
bowed before her as she would have bowed 
to her mistress. Whence the respect she felt for 
the aged waif, she could not tell ; she knew only 
that her heart yearned toward her. 

It was on the day following the first visit of 
the police detective that Endora arrived at the 
cot, and learned what had transpired. She lis- 
tened patiently to Lora’s incoherent narrative, 
and then she heard the more comprehensive 
expounding of John Downey. She also learned 
of the departure of the hack on the night of 
Christine’s disappearance ; and she furthermore 
arrived at the fact that gravel had been found 
upon the floor of the piazza on the morning 
succeeding, as though feet wet with dew had 
brought it up there. 

After this, Endora came bluntly upon the ques- 
tion as to whether the lawyer’s clerk had been 
seen upon the premises. Lora declared herself 
stupid that she had not thought of this before. 
The man had called there on the very day pre- 
ceding Christine’s disappearance. He had come 


^22 


Endora 07 i the Trail, 


and offered his services in the lady’s behalf — to 
help her win a portion of the property if he 
could — but Christine had turned him away with- 
out entertaining his proposition. 

From this point Endora made strict search 
until she had succeeded in tracing Hugo to 
Elmside, and here she found the servant with 
whom he had conversed, and learned what the 
subject of his conversation had been. 

As the old woman walked down the broad 
carriage-way from the Elmside mansion to the 
highway, she nodded and muttered to herself, 
until she had reached the square where she could 
take a street-car, by which she was landed in 
Boston, and ere long she was housed in a tene- 
ment of questionable character, where questiona- 
ble-looking men and women came and went at 
her bidding. She did not seem to be wholly at 
home there; but the people knew her, and 
appeared ready and willing to obey her. 


Near to the Dregs. 


223 


CHAPTER XIX. 

NEAR TO THE DREGS. 

Three days Paul Way brook searched high and 
low for traces of the missing girl, and at the end 
of that time he fully believed she had fled from 
the city. In deepest dejection, at the close of 
the third day, he repaired to the hotel where he 
had taken up his quarters. In his despondency, 
he believed that Christine was lost to him. He 
believed that she had been moved to forsake 
him because of his father’s wrath. The elements 
that entered into the composition of his feelings 
were far from being of a harmonious nature. 
There was neither harmony of sorrow nor har- 
mony of bitterness, though gall and wormwood 
were in his cup. 

On this evening, Paul’s evil star was in the 
ascendant. As he came into the smoking-room 
after tea he met three of his college chums, who 
found him at a moment when his moral force 
was submerged by the flood of disquiet, and he 


224 


Near to the Dregs. 


grasped at the companionship eagerly. They 
went to a private room and called for champagne 
and cards, and there they made a night of it. 
They played for money, but the stakes were 
merely nominal, as not one of the number cared 
to win from another for the bare sake of the win- 
ning. At least, so they professed to believe as 
they played in the early night. But a close 
observer, standing apart from interest in the 
game, would have detected, as the play pro- 
ceeded, that they grew eager and excited, .and 
that the loser was not so jubilant as was the 
winner. 

So the night passed, and it was near morning 
when Paul, with uncertain vision, sought his bed. 

Be not too eager to condemn, ye who, by 
accident of birth, have inherited cooler and 
stronger wills. Be not too complaisant in your 
self-righteousness, ye who have never been 
tempted. Believe, if you can, that among the 
thousands who fall are some over whose misfor* 
tune angels weep. 

Paul Way brook could be strong In the right 
so long as circumstances surrounding him gave 
him right direction. There was not in his nature 


Near to the Dregs, 225 

a single instinct preferring evil rather than good. 
But, like many another wayfarer in this world 
of alternate day and night, the very best im- 
pulses of his heart were the means through which, 
in misdirection, he was led astray. He had been 
cast out from his home because he would not 
cast off his love ; and now he had lost the dear 
love for whom he had sacrificed a parent’s bless- 
ing. At college, Paul had learned to play at 
cards, and to heighten the interest of the game 
by small stakes of money. 

Cast thus out from home and from love, with 
the evil appetite upon him, and the evil influ- 
ences gathering thicker and thicker about him, 
Paul went rapidly down, and he was content to 
seek the society of those with whom, two short 
weeks before, he would not have deigned to 
even shake hands. He had plenty of money, and 
the honey-bees buzzed around him continually 
giving him no time for thought or consideration. 
In fact, for two weeks he had not seen a really 
sober moment. He had come at length to that 
estate of body in which alcohol is both food and 
drink. 

It was toward the close of the day that three 


226 


Near to the Dregs. 


men stopped a street-car in Haymarket Square, 
and entered. The car was bound up town, and 
had contained only one passenger when the new- 
comers entered. The said passenger had been 
reading, and over the top of his paper he contem- 
plated the three men who had seated themselves 
directly opposite. He wondered to see those 
three men together, and he wondered still more 
to see them conversing upon a social equality. 

One of those men had a ministerial look. His 
garb was of the finest of black broadcloth ; he 
wore a white cravat, with a standing dickey ; his 
face was pale and smooth-shaven ; his features 
were regular, and not ill-looking ; and his black 
silk hat was set easily upon a well-shaped head. 
He wore gold-bowed spectacles and kid gloves, 
and carried a gold-headed cane. 

The second man of the trio had no such moral 
look. The gentleman with the paper set him 
down at once as a sporting character. His cloth- 
ing was of a jaunty cut, and his jewelry, if not of 
the first water, was at least bright and attractive. 
He wore a magnificent mustache, and his face 
had a hard, reckless look, though not forbidding 
or unkind. He appeared a gentleman, and dis- 


227 


Near to the Dregs. 


played a double row of pearly teeth when he 
smiled. 

The third man of the group was the wonder. 
A more forsaken, graceless-looking tramp he of the 
newspaper thought he had never seen. He was 
dirty and slouchy ; his clothing ill-fitting, soiled 
and patched ; his hair uncombed ; his features 
drawn into a stupid, drunken leer, with a livid 
zone around one of the eyes, as though he had 
received a blow there. It might have been an 
extravasation of blood, and it might have been 
something else. The eye itself, upon close inspec- 
tion, did not show any sign of having been injured. 
Filthy, ragged, low and seemingly utterly 
degraded, this wretch was admitted to full and 
free communion with the other two. Yes, and 
more, they addressed him confidentially, and his 
answers to their questions were remarkably crisp 
and properly spoken. The drunken leer of face 
and the drunken lurching of the head would ever 
and anon be laid aside, as though at will, and 
from both eyes and face would gleam an intelli- 
gence keen and startling. 

The car stopped at the foot of Bromfield street, 
and the trio got out. The man with the news- 


228 


Near to the Dregs, 


paper watched them depart in different direc- 
tions, and he wondered greatly who and what 
they could be. 

That evening Paul Way brook was tapped upon 
the shoulder by a friend. 

“ Ah, Dick ! Is it you, old fellow?” 

“Yes, Paul. Let’s try a punch.” 

They tried the punch. The friend was Dick 
Hammat, a glorious good fellow, whom Paul had 
picked up in his travels, and who had saved him 
a broken head in a brawl. 

In this Dick Hammat we have the sporting 
gentleman — he of the magnificent mustache and 
bright jewelry — of the street-car. They drank 
and chatted, and chatted and drank ; and after a 
time Dick proposed a walk. Arm-in-arm they 
went forth. 

The twain stopped in at several places and 
drank, Dick Hammat persisting in paying most 
of the time. At length they stopped before a 
door where Paul did not remember to have ever 
stopped before. 

“What’s this, Dick?” 

“ It’s one of the quietest and nobbiest places 
in the world. We can spend an evening here 


Near to the Dregs, 


229 


after our own fashion. We can have a glorious 
punch, of honest stuff, and a quiet little game if 
we like.’’ 

“Just the place, old boy. Let’s go in.” 

They entered, and went up-stairs into a double 
room handsomely furnished. There was a bar 
in one corner, behind which stood a man in a 
linen coat. At a table, beneath a gas-jet, sat a 
gentleman reading. He was a sedate, ministe- 
rial-looking man, scrupulously dressed in black, 
without ornament of any kind, saving his gold- 
bowed spectacles. He looked up from his paper, 
and seemed surprised. Hammat also seemed 
surprised. 

“ Hallo ! Major — is this you ?” 

“Yes, Dick,” said the gentleman, laying aside 
his paper. 

“ When did you come from Washington ?” 

“Last night. I have a furlough for a few 
weeks, and am bound for the mountains.” 

“ Well met !” cried Dick, grasping the gentle- 
man by the hand. “ Paul, this is Major Harvey 
of the Topographical Engineers. Major, this is 
Paul Waybrook, one of the true sort! Gad! 
you ought to know each other !” 


230 


Near to the Dregs. 


Major Harvey was delighted ; and Paul was 
delighted ; and Dick was delighted, and the man 
at the bar was summoned to brew one of his 
very best punches. 

They laughed, and chatted, and drank, and by 
and by Dick asked the major if he ever indulged 
in cards. 

The major was not partial to cards, though he 
would take a hand for the sake of sociality. 

Cards and liquor were brought, and they took 
their seats at a table. 

Just then the door was opened, and a dirty-look- 
ing fellow staggered in, and reeled up to the bar, 
and asked for something to drink. He was a 
graceless, ragged-looking scamp, apparently of 
the gutter species, and seemed so drunk that he 
could hardly stand. The third man of the 
strange trio of the street-car ! And here the 
three are again ; but the other two do not know 
this man, nor does he know them. Oh, no ! 

The bartender refuses to let him have liquor, 
and orders him to leave ; but instead of leaving, 
the poor wretch staggers to a large easy-chair 
and sinks into it. The barkeeper comes around 


231 


Near to the Dregs. 

and tries to rouse the fellow, but a stupor has 
already fallen upon him. 

‘‘Poor dog!” says Dick Hammat, “ let him 
sleep it off. Don’t kick him into the street.” 

“ If you don’t mind it, gentlemen, I don’t,” 
says the barman. 

“ I don’t mind it,” says the major. “ I’d help 
a dog that was as badly off as that.” 

“Let him be,” chimes Paul, shuffling the 
cards. 

And the tramp is left to himself, and the game 
proceeds. 

By a peculiar fate, the dirty, ragged wretch 
has sunk down directly behind Paul’s chair, and 
presently he sits up, and the drunken leer 
disappears, and intelligence, quick and keen, 
flashes upon every feature. As he sits he can 
look fairly and squarely into Paul’s hand, and he 
sees every card as it is picked up. He sees, and 
then he makes a dumb show with his fingers; 
and Dick Hammat and the major, who sit facing 
him, read the language of his signs as plainly as 
though they were printed in letters of light, or, 
to put it more directly, they are thus enabled to 
know the value of Paul Way brook’s hand as well 


232 


A Change of Keepers, 


and as surely as though the faces of his cards 
were turned toward them ! 

It is thus we reach a solution of the mystery 
of the strange trio of the street-car. God help 
their victim ! 


CHAPTER XX. 

A CHANGE OF KEEPERS. 

We left Christine in a far-away attic, shut 
in by bolts and bars, fully conscious that Caspar 
Hugo was her enemy, and that she was, for the 
present, completely in his power. When she 
had fairly collected her thoughts — and her sim- 
ple trust in Heaven and her prayer thitherward 
had greatly assisted her in that direction — she 
reflected upon her situation and the circum- 
stances connected therewith. But she could 
arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. When she 
had wearied herself with vain surmises concern- 
ing the hidden relations that might exist between 
Hugo and her foster-mother’s estate she turned 


A Change of Keepers. 


233 


to thoughts of Endora and Ralph Appleton. 
She asked herself if it could be possible that 
Endora was an enemy, and in league with her 
captor. The question was dismissed almost as 
soon as presented. She could not believe it. 
Old and worn and haggard and decrepit as the 
strange woman had been, she had borne in her 
furrowed face the stamp of an honest purpose. 
Something in her look and tone and in her gen- 
eral bearing had reached down into Christine’s 
heart, and awakened faith. No, she could not 
doubt Endora. She would not. 

On the following morning, Christine found 
water for bathing, and she had just completed 
her toilet, when the outer door was opened, and 
a woman entered. It was a woman of middle 
age, tall, large and strong, with a face hard, cold 
and forbidding. When she saw that the maiden 
was dressed, she turned and spoke to some one 
in the passage behind her, and directly Caspar 
Hugo came in. He bowed and smiled, and 
hoped that Christine had passed a comfortable 
night. 

“ It is my purpose,” he said, to make you 
comfortable ; and if you find discomfort it must 


234 


A Chafige of Keepers, 


be of your own making. This woman is Ann 
Selfer. She knows that you are to be my wife, 
and she knows that I have brought you here 
against your will ; and, furthermore, 1 have tried 
to tell her the whole story just as it is between 
us ; so you will have no need to trouble her with 
your account. Still, if I have forgotten any- 
thing, you may supply the omission. Ann will 
wait upon you, and be kind to you ; and you 
may make known to her your wants with the 
assurance that all proper ones will be promptly 
answered. You have nothing to fear.” 

Nothing to fear ! And would not the compan- 
ionship of that man be the most dreadful calamity 
of which she could conceive ? But he did not 
wait for her to express the thought. He kissed 
his hand to her, and withdrew ; and she, with a 
groan, sank into a chair. 

Ann Selfer, with her stout, strong arms folded 
over her broad breast, stood for a time and 
looked at the shrinking maiden — looked as 
though she would read her very soul — and at 
length she spoke : 

“ Miss Christine, since we are to live together 
for a while, we had better understand each other. 


A Change of Keepers. 


235 


1 think I know all about you. As for myself, I 
am hired by Mr. Hugo, and I shall serve him as 
well as I can ; so you will understand at the out- 
set that you are never to ask a favor of me which 
he might not wish me to grant. I’d cut my 
hand off sooner than I’d break faith with him. 
Do you understand that?” 

I understand,” said Christine. The woman 
did not appear ugly — only firm and strong and 
coarse ; and the first clear thought in the 
maiden’s mind was that mildness and silent suf- 
fering would accomplish more with such a 
woman than could any degree of complaint or 
perverseness. 

“ And you’ll try not to cross me ?” pursued 
Ann. 

I will try,” answered Christine, mildly. 

The tightly drawn muscles of the woman’s 
face relaxed. She had expected a burst of pas- 
sion, and had been prepared for it; but the prep- 
aration had been unnecessary. After a pause, 
and in a softer key, she said : 

“ I guess we’ll get along very well ; and if 
ever you feel like blaming me for being your 
keeper, just hold up, and instead, thank fortune 


236 


A Change of Keepers. 


that Hugo didn’t get a worse woman to do his 
bidding. I’m his slave, bound to him by a tie 
that I daren’t break ; so don’t expect me to go 
back on him. And now you’ll have some break- 
fast. You are not to be starved.” 

******* 

The days that followed were much alike. Ann 
Selfer was kind and considerate, but firm and 
uncompromising in her line of duty ; and very 
soon Christine assured herself that from her 
keeper she could gain no help toward escape. 
As for escape otherwise, she could not see her 
way. Not only were the bolts and bars strong, 
and not only was Ann vigilant and true to her 
trust, but she had discovered that in the apart- 
ments below was a man who was interested in 
holding her — another than Caspar. She had not 
seen him, but she had heard his voice, and she 
knew that most of his time was spent beneath 
the roof. 

Nearly every evening Caspar came in and 
talked with her. Sometimes he was moderate 
and persuasive ; at other times he was vindictive 
and threatening. Christine’s treatment of him 


A Change of Keepers, 


237 


was always the same. She loathed and despised 
him, and she sought not to conceal the feeling ; 
nor did she yet seek to irritate him. She did the 
best she could to maintain herself in his pres- 
ence. Once he said to her: 

“ Your perverseness, Christine, can only work 
you mischief. My wife you must be. If you do 
not consent to the union, and suffer a clergyman 
to unite us quietly, I will have the union a thing 
of force. I have you in my power, and you 
dream not yet of what I can do.” 

Christine asked if she could not see Alexander 
Compton. She would tell him to give all that 
he had to give to Caspar. 

Take the money, and let me go. I want it 
not.” 

Poor fool !” laughed Hugo, bitterly. Do 
you not know that I love you ? I’d sooner part 
with the money myself than give up you. No, 
no, my sweet bird, you are mine, and the sooner 
you make up your mind to submit, the sooner 
you’ll find peace and comfort !” 

On another occasion, when Christine sought 
to know how long she was to be kept in that 
close prison, Caspar informed her that he was 


238 


A Change of Keepers. 


only waiting for the settlement of the Brookside 
estate. 

“ As soon,” he said, “as Mr. Compton is put in 
possession, which will be very soon, I shall leave 
Boston, and you will go with me. I only wait 
for that.” 

Again, Christine ventured to ask after Paul 
Waybrook. 

“ Bah !” exclaimed Caspar, assuming disgust. 
“ He is beneath your notice. He is herding with 
the very lowest of the low, and is running riot in 
drunkenness and debauchery. Last evening I 
saw him in company with a fellow named Ham- 
mat — an outlaw and a debauchee — and they were 
like brothers. Thank your stars I have saved 
you from him.” 

Christine bowed her head, and groaned aloud. 
She felt in her heart that this might in the main 
be true ; and she felt, also, that Paul’s deep love 
for her — so deep, that even the dread consequence 
of a father’s curse could not shake it — lay at the 
bottom of the calamity. And did she love him 
the less for this ? That night she prayed not for 
herself, but for Paul! 

And where, all this time, was Endora ? She 


A Change of Keepers, 


239 


was moving early and late. From her home of 
questionable repute at the North End, she went 
forth at morning, at noon and at night ; and, 
furthermore, she sent forth emissaries of low and 
lower degree. She knew the game for which 
she searched, and she employed help accord- 
ingly. 

If she had really wished to find Christine, it 
may be asked, why did she not employ the police? 
She had her reasons. She suspected the villain, 
and she dared not put him on his guard ; while 
he, on his part, knew nothing of her. 

In short, Endora knew much — knew enough. 
But her associations were not always with the 
low. She was in communication with parties in 
New Orleans ; and with the letters from that city, 
she sought Ralph Appleton, and gave them into 
his hands. Her face was assuming a look more 
and more hopeful, and her eyes sparkled with 
more’ and more of the ethereal fire which had 
once been their normal light. 

And on a certain morning, Endora, closely 
vailed, in company with Mr. Appleton, was at the 
Boston and Albany Station waiting for the NeAv 
York train. It came at length, and among the 


240 


A Change of Keepers. 


passengers was a tall, white-haired gentleman 
whom Endora touched upon the arm. 

Mr. Lefevre !" 

‘‘Ah! Mrs.—” 

“ Hush ! This is Mr. Appleton, of whom I 
have written. Mr. Appleton, this is Mr. Albert 
Lefevre, of New Orleans. 

And the two gentlemen, when they had shaken 
hands, accompanied Endora to a coach ; and the 
three were driven to Mr. Appleton’s dwelling. 

About this same time a change was made at 
the chambers of Caspar Hugo. Ann Selfer com- 
plained of sickness, and declared that an old 
rheumatic complaint was returning upon her. 
She must relinquish her post ; but she could 
recommend a woman in every way qualified to 
take her place. Caspar said he would see the 
woman. She came, and he liked her. She was 
a bit too old, but she evidently possessed nerve 
and iron enough for his purpose. She promised 
to guard the prisoner faithfully. 

That evening Ann bade the maiden adieu ; and 
when Christine, startled and wondering, asked 
for an explanation, the woman said : 

“ I am not able to stay here longer ; but be not 


A Change of Keepers, 


241 


alarmed. A better woman than 1 is coming in 
my place. She will tell you why the change is 
made. I cannot. I’d like you to kiss me before 
I go, and say that 3 ^ou bear me no ill-will. I 
think being with you has made me better.” 

Christine kissed her, and assured her that she 
felt no hardness toward her ; and Ann Seller 
turned away and wiped her eyes. Presently she 
said, in a low, guarded tone : 

I have a word for you from the woman that’s 
coming. If Caspar Hugo comes in with her you 
are not to show a sign of surprise ; if you recog- 
nize her you are not to show it so much as by a 
look. Your very life may depend upon it. Will 
you remember this ?” 

But—” 

“Ask me nothing, but answer me plainly. 
Will you remember?” 

“ I will remember.” 

“ Then all is well. Bless you, lady, and may 
you see happier days. I’m glad I’ve known you. 
I shall believe hereafter that everything on earth 
is not bad !” 

And with this Ann Selfer went away, and very 
soon thereafter Caspar Hugo entered, followed 


242 A Change of Keepers, 

by an old woman, whose personal appearance 
was less inviting than that of the woman who had 
gone ; but her eyes were blue and bright, and as 
Christine caught their gleaming she started as 
with an electric shock ; but she remembered the 
words of Ann, and, in order that she might make 
no sign, she sat down and buried her face in her 
hands. 

I have brought you a new companion,” said 
Caspar, “and she will be as kind to you as she can 
be. But I shall not keep you here much longer. 
I have already arranged for our marriage, and the 
event will not be long delayed.” 

He spoke further, urged and threatened, and 
finally took his leave. 

When he had gone, and his receding footsteps 
had died away in the lower hall, the woman 
turned the key in the lock of the door, and then 
approached the maiden. 

“ Hush ! Let no word betray us !” 

“ Endora !” 

“ Yes, my dear Christine. I have found you at 
length.” 

“ And — oh ! you are my friend ? You will save 
me ?” 


A Chayige of Keepers, 


243 


“ Hush ! I have sought for you long, and I 
have found you. I have sought carefully, that 
the enemy might not take warning of my pres- 
ence.” 

And — and — I am safe ?” 

“ You have friends, Christine, who have not 
been idle.” 

“You — you are from the outer world,” cried 
the maiden, after a pause, at the same time rais- 
ing her clasped hands, “ and may tell me of Paul 
Way brook.” 

The face of the aged woman softened as with 
pity. Instead of answering directly, she said : 

“Tell me: On the night that you left the 
Bropkside, how did you leave ?” 

Christine told the story ; told of the forged 
note, of the ambush, and of her forcible abduc- 
tion. 

“ Did you leave a note behind addressed to 
Paul?” 

“ No. Was one found?” 

“ One was found — a forgery, by the same hand 
that wrote the other — professing to be from you, 
addressed to Paul, telling him that you relim 
quished all claim upon his hand.” 


244 


A Change of Keepers, 


Christine started like one stabbed, and gasped 
for breath. 

“ Hush, dear child ! Brighter days are com- 
ing.” 

“ Oh, Endora ! can you, will you help Paul ?” 

“ Christine, do you trust me fully?” 

As the woman asked this, she stood before the 
maiden, and looked upon her eagerly, and a 
strange, warm light was in her deep-blue eyes. 

And Christine, her heart moved by an instinct 
of faith and trust that came from depths un- 
known, sank forward, and threw her arms around 
Endora’s neck, murmuring, as she pillowed her 
head upon her bosom : 

“You are the only friend I know, and I trust 
you and love you !” 

With a convulsive movement Endora clasped 
the fair girl in a close and strong embrace, and 
kissing her thrice, while tears trickled down her 
worn and furrowed cheeks, she said : 

“ Look up, sweet child ; you are saved !” 


A Crash, 


245 


CHAPTER XXL 

A CRASH. 

On the evening of the arrival of Endora and 
the departure of Ann Selfer, Alexander Compton 
and Caspar sat together in the lower chamber, 
with an empty punch-bowl between them. They 
had been conversing upon an important matter, 
and both showed signs of uneasiness. 

“It won’t answer,” said Alexander. “We 
must have this thing settled up. How long do 
these probate judges and public administrators 
intend to put us off ?” 

“ They cannot do it much longer,” returned 
Caspar. “ The whole case is clear, and we have 
only to be patient.” 

“ But what is their excuse for this present 
delay ?” 

Caspar was forced to acknowledge that he 
could not exactly tell. He had not troubled the 
probate officers lately, not caring to appear too 
much interested. 


246 


A Crash, 


It cannot be for a settlement of claims upon 
any ordinary basis,” said Alexander ; ‘‘ for that 
has all been done. There must be some new 
hitch. I wish you would find out.” 

“ I will see the judge himself to-morrow. So 
let us hold up until then. Can you stand another 
bowl of punch ?” 

Alexander nodded, and his son proceeded to 
brew the soothing beverage. 

During the forenoon of the following day, 
Caspar Hugo called upon the judge of probate, 
and asked for information concerning the settle- 
ment of the Brookside estate — not that he had 
any interest in the matter, but the heir, Mr. 
Compton, was anxious to know how much 
longer he would be detained in Boston. 

His honor was stiff and morose. He could 
tell nothing about the matter. The business was 
in the hands of the administrator, to whom appli- 
cation for information might be made. 

Caspar left the judge, feeling rather unpleas- 
ant ; but he sought to keep up a stout heart, and 
since he had set out for information, he was 
bound to follow up the search. He at length 
found the administrator, and appealed to him. 


A Crash . 


247 


The administrator was very gentlemanly, and 
seemed rather pleased than otherwise to afford 
any help in his power — too much pleased, Cas- 
par might have thought had his wits been clear 
and keen. 

“ My dear Hugo,” said the public functionary, 
tapping his visitor familiarly upon the shoulder, 
“ I know there has been a good deal of delay ; 
but I have matters about clear now. A lawyer 
— a certain Ralph Appleton — perhaps you know 
him ?” 

Caspar said he had heard of him. 

“ Mr. Appleton,” pursued the administrator, 
“ acting for Christine St. Clair, put in a bill for 
services performed by that young lady in 
Rachel’s family.” 

'' Let the bill be allowed, by all means,” said 
Caspar, eagerly. 

“ There is no need,” answered the other. “ The 
girl does not appear, and her attorney withdraws 
the claim. I saw him last evening, and he gave 
me information to that effect.” 

Then,” ventured Caspar, “ the business may 
be soon settled ?” 

‘‘ Very soon. We may hold an informal meet- 


248 


A Crash. 


ing to-morrow ; and if we do, your presence, 
with that of Mr. Compton, will be requisite. I 
think we may present a clear claim to-morrow.” 

“ Shall I consider myself officially notified ?” 

“ No,” said the administrator, with a smile. 
“ That would be hardly legal. I will drop you 
a note this evening. I must see the judge, and 
fix upon an hour.” 

And Caspar went away vowing within himself 
that the public administrator was a gentleman, 
and that his business was safe. 

That evening on his way home, Caspar Hugo 
took from the post-office a missive from the 
administrator. It was a double note — contain- 
ing in the same envelope a notification for him- 
self and one for Alexander Compton ; and the 
purport of the notification was to the following 
effect : 

There was to be a meeting of those interested 
in the estate of the late Rachel St. Clair on the 
next day, at two o’clock in the afternoon, at No. 
C -street; and the presence of the recip- 
ient was necessary to a proper arrangement 
of affairs. 

A postscript added that, though the meeting 


A Crash. 


249 


was to be informal, yet it was called by authority 
of the judge of probate, who was anxious to 
arrive at an early settlement ; and it was confi- 
dently expected that, since only one legitimate 
heir had appeared, said settlement would be 
easily consummated. 

Caspar hastened home to his chambers, and 
shared his information with his father. 

It would seem from this,” said Alexander, 
after they had consulted awhile, “ that we are to 
expect no more trouble. They must have given 
up the search for the girl.” 

“ I don’t think there’s been any search,” replied 
Caspar. “ I have kept my eyes upon the move- 
ments at police headquarters, and I know that 
no effort has been called for there. Her few 
friends were blinded by my letter. They believe 
she’s run off of her own accord ; and since young 
Way brook is down so flat, I don’t know of a 
single human being that has any particular inter- 
est in bringing her back. No — we’re all safe in 
that quarter.” 

“ I hope so,” responded the father, with a 
dubious note in his speech. 


250 


A Crash. 


“ 1 know it,” cried Caspar, snapping his 
fingers. 

And without further remark he proceeded to 
brew a punch. 

Later in the evening Caspar called the new 
keeper down from the upper chamber, and ques- 
tioned her concerning the disposition of her 
charge. He had put great faith in Endora, and 
she had promised him that she would make 
Christine understand that further opposition on 
her part would be worse than useless. 

Surely, sir,” said the woman, with solemn 
seriousness, “ I am convinced that the girl will 
submit resignedly to the fate in store for her. 
She knows now to a certainty what a rig Paul 
Waybrook is running, and she has more than half 
promised me that she will accept the situation 
which seems to have been designed for her from 
the first. Upon my life, sir, I don’t think you 
will have any more trouble with her. Of course, 
she is still a girl, and will have her whims ; and 
you had better humor her until you are able by 
right to command.” 

Caspar nodded, and coincided ; and he was 
very gracious, too. He promised the new 


A Crash. 


251 


keeper that, if matters turned out as he expected, 
he would enrich her beyond her wildest hopes. 

On the following day, at noon, Caspar called 
Endora down again, and informed her that both 
he and Mr. Compton were going out, and that 
they might be gone until evening. She was to 
keep the outer doors securely locked and the 
shutters closed. The woman listened, and 
nodded, and returned to her post. 

At two o’clock, precisely, Alexander Compton 

and Caspar were at the door of No. C 

street. The door was of solid rosewood, and 
the portico above it was of brown-stone, and 
elaborately sculptured ; and upon the broad 
silver plate they read the name : 

Appleton. 

The precious twain stood still upon the white 
granite steps, and were wondering why the meet- 
ing had been called at this place, when some one 
came up behind them. They turned and beheld 
the administrator. 

“ Ah ! Good-day, gentlemen,” said the latter, 
bowing and smiling. 


252 


A Crash, 


“ Is this the place of meeting ?” asked Caspar, 
blankly. 

“ Yes,” replied the administrator, smiling again. 
“We had planned first to meet at the probate 
office, but two other meetings had been notified 
for that place this afternoon. As for my place, 
it is farther away than this. Appleton offered us 
his house, and as we desired his presence, we 
accepted.” 

By this time a servant had opened the door, 
and father and son were ushered into the hall 
before they had time to speak further, the admin- 
istrator following close behind them. 

From the hall they were ushered into a rear 
parlor — a spacious, vaulted apartment, furnished 
not gaudily, but heavily and grandly. And here 
they met his honor, the judge, and Doctor Ark- 
wright ; and they were also introduced to the 
host, Mr. Ralph Appleton, a tall, handsome man 
of fifty, or thereabouts. 

“.This,” said Mr. Appleton, in turn, pointing to 
a gentleman who had arisen upon his right hand, 
“ is my friend Lefevre. He is stopping with me 
for a few days, and as he is a lawyer, I thought I 
would call him in.” 


A Crash, 


253 


Alexander and Caspar shook hands with Mr. 
Lefevre. He was a man of sixty, at least, with 
eyes like the eyes of an eagle ; and though he 
smiled when he shook them by the hand, they 
were not easy. They remembered that there 
had been a Lawyer Lefevre in New Orleans 
who had managed matters for Madame Rachel. 
Alexander remembered that there had been a 
father and son. Hubert Lefevre had died very 
old, and had been dead some years. But — this 
could not be the son ? Pshaw ! 

“ Mr. Leffington has not arrived ?” said Caspar, 
interrogatively. 

“ I doubt if Mr. Leffington will be here,” replied 
the administrator. I saw him this forenoon, 
and he was not feeling well. He thinks the 
atmosphere here doesn’t agree with him. But I 
have his papers, so his absence will not matter.” 

The company were seated, and a silence 
ensued. His honor, the judge, sat at the head of 
the room, near the great pier-glass. Upon his 
right, down the side, sat Alexander Compton 
and Caspar. Upon his left sat Appleton and 
Lefevre, while near the centre of the apartment. 


254 


A Crash, 


at a table upon which were writing materials, 
sat the administrator. 

The silence was becoming oppressive — oppres- 
sive, at least, to Alexander and Caspar, to whom 
there was something peculiarly ominous in it. 
They trembled in their seats. Under the 
shadow of this silence their dark sins grew 
heavy and sore. But the break came. 

The administrator, sitting, nodded to the judge 
and then to the others, and said : 

Gentlemen, as this meeting is entirely infor- 
mal, and as our business is all plain before us, I 
propose that we expedite it with all possible dis- 
patch.” 

Those who sat around nodded assent. 

“ First, then,” pursued the administrator, “ I 
will read the attested copy of the last will and 
testament of Victor St. Clair.” 

He read the document, and at its close re- 
marked : 

“ Thus, we see there are five salient proposi- 
tions in this will. First : Victor St. Clair 
bequeaths everything to his wife Rachel. Sec- 
ond : he provides that said Rachel may, of her 
own pleasure, bequeath the estate in turn. 


A Crash. 


255 


Third : In the event of the said Rachel’s dying 
intestate the property falls to his child Pauline 
or her heirs. Fourth : In event of there being 
no heirs of said Victor’s own body, then, upon 
Rachel’s dying intestate, the property goes to the 
heirs of the sister of Victor St. Clair. And, fifth, 
failing all these, the city of New Orleans 
becomes the devisee.” 

There was a pause after the administrator had 
laid down the will, and Caspar ventured at 
length to remark : 

“ In the absence of Mr. Leffington I may say 
that Alexander Compton’s claim to heirship is 
established beyond a doubt.” 

The positive proofs on his side,” smilingly 
answered the officer, “ are good enough ; but 
the negative proofs are not substantiated.” 

“ Sir!” 

I mean, my dear Mr. Hugo, that Alexander 
Compton, as a descendant of Victor St. Clair’s 
sister, must give place to the descendants of 
Victor St. Clair’s own self.” 

Certainly, sir — but — but — ” 

“ I will explain very quickly,” interrupted the 
administrator, with a wave of the hand. “ All 


256 


A Crash. 


present, of course, wish simply to see justice 
done ; and for the purpose of pointing out clearly 
to those most interested the course strict justice 
must take, I have called you together. I will 
summon a witness who has not yet appeared 
publicly in this case." 

Thus speaking, he touched a small silver bell 
at his elbow, and directly afterward a door upon 
the judge’s left was opened, and Dr. Arkwright 
entered, leading by the hand the aged woman 
whom we have known as — 

“ Endora !’’ burst in a startled whisper from 
Caspar’s lips. 


Endoras Story. 


257 


CHAPTER XXIL 
endora’s story. 

Endora heard Caspar’s exclamation, and 
regarding him quite calmly, she said : 

“ I am here, Caspar. I was summoned, as 
were you, and I could not disobey.” 

Father and son turned pale, and shook from 
head to foot. Surely, there was something 
ominous in this. 

Madame,” said the administrator, “ I hold in 
my hand a copy of the last will and testament of 
Victor St. Clair. You have seen it, I think?” 

I have, sir.” 

And understand its provisions ?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ At present, a grandson of Theresa, sister of 
Victor, appears as the only heir. Can you dis- 
pute his claim ?” 

Dr. Arkwright drew up a chair, and the 
woman sat down, and after a brief pause, in a 


25 ^ 


Endoras Story. 


voice clear and harmonious, she spoke as fol- 
lows : 

“ Gentlemen, I will tell you a simple story. 
Rachel St. Clair, when her husband died, was 
left with a child called Pauline. When Rachel 
had reached the age of thirty-four, Pauline was 
on her way home from Cuba, where she had 
been at school. Rachel St. Clair was still beau- 
tiful, and a French officer, named Paul Cambray, 
had fallen in love with her, and offered her his 
hand, which she had accepted. Thus were mat- 
ters when Pauline arrived in New Orleans. 
Men saw her, and were dazzled. Paul Cambray 
saw her, and at length his love turned from the 
mother to the daughter, and he and Pauline 
went away together and were married. Rachel 
would not forgive them. She was willing to 
take back her daughter, but she would never see 
the false lover more ; and she never did. 

“ In time, to Paul and Pauline was born a 
daughter, whom they named ‘ Marie.’ Shortly 
after the birth of Marie, Paul joined General 
Jackson’s army at New Orleans, and there laid 
down his life. A sickness fell upon Pauline, and 
for more than a year she hovered between life 


Endoras Story. • 


259 


and death. But her strength came back to her, 
and she returned to New Orleans to implore her 
mother’s mercy and forgiveness ; but upon her 
arrival she learned that her mother had gone 
away to the far North. Pauline could not fol- 
low. She found friends who assisted her in their 
poor way, and for a time she supported herself 
and her child by teaching music. 

Marie grew up to womanhood, beautiful and 
good, but poor. At the age of eighteen she 
married Ralph Vinay, who was a clerk of a river 
steamboat, and went with him- on his trips. 
They had been married ten years when a daugh- 
ter was born to them, and while the mother lay 
sick at Natchez, Ralph’s boat was blown up, and 
he was killed. Pauline, when she learned of the 
disaster, went up to Natchez, where she found 
Marie dying. The presence of her mother 
revived the stricken one for a little while, but 
not for long. Marie, when she knew she must 
die, gave her infant into Pauline’s hands, saying 
to her : ' Be a mother to my child when I am 

gone, and make her life bright and pleasant if 
you can.’ And so she died. 

“ Pauline, with her infant grandchild in her 


26 o 


. Endoras Story. 


arms, went back to New Orleans, where she 
nursed her sacred charge for more than a year ; 
but she was very, very poor, and at length she 
resolved that she would seek her own mother in 
the North, and give the little one into her keep- 
ing. Surely, she thought, Rachel would not 
refuse to accept the sweet child of her own blood 
so far removed in birth from the event of the old 
bitter days. With this purpose, Pauline set her- 
self to raising money for the journey, and when 
she had done that, she set forth. She reached 
Boston in autumn, and in time she found where 
her mother lived; but her courage had failed 
her. People told her that Rachel St. Clair was 
cold and stern, and she dared not go to her. 
And yet she resolved that she would give the 
child into Rachel’s care. She bore her grand- 
child to Rachel’s door, through snow and storm, 
and awaited the result. The child was taken in, 
and Rachel’s heart yearned toward it ; and the 
child, in turn, clung by natural instinct to her. 
And thus, without knowing it, Rachel St. Clair 
pressed to her bosom her own great-grandchild 
— the grandchild of her own Pauline. 

“ Pauline had planned that, in time, she would 


Ejtdoras Story. 


261 


reveal the truth ; but when she knew that Rachel 
had taken the little one to her heart and home, 
and adopted it as her own, and given to it her 
own name, she hesitated. She feared there might 
be a shock if she now told the truth. And she 
hesitated — hesitated too long. She was sick 
when Rachel was sick, and knew not when Rachel 
died, or she might have revealed herself at the 
last moment. And yet she holds in her heart the 
blessed assurance that her mother forgave her. 
She knows it, for she has heard it from Christine’s 
own lips.” 

“ Christine repeated Caspar, with a gasp, as 
though startled from a frightful dream. 

“Yes,” answered the woman. “She whom 
you have known as Rachel St. Clair’s foster-child 
is in truth blood of her blood, and bone of her 
bone.” 

“ Where is she now ?” Caspar demanded, with 
another gasp. He spoke as at a venture, as a 
man casts the die upon the turn of which his life 
depends. 

“ Since I am her keeper,” replied the teller of 
the story, “ I will produce her.” 

And thus speaking, she turned to the door and 


262 


Endoras Story. 


opened it, and directly afterward led Christine 
into the room. The maiden shrank and shivered 
when she met the gaze of Caspar ; but when she 
saw how frightened and terror-stricken and 
abject, how pale and ghastly, he looked, and how 
kindly other eyes beamed upon her, she took 
courage. 

Even the judge felt his heart warm and pulsate 
to a more tuneful measure, as he beheld the mar- 
velous beauty of this girl. 

Alexander Compton, when he saw that his son 
Caspar was as one paralyzed, started to his feet, 
and struggled for utterance. He doubted the 
woman’s story. Who and what was she who 
thus appeared to dispute his claim ? 

“ I will tell you,” answered the woman, in 
clear, ringing tones. “ This,” placing her hand 
upon the maiden’s head, “ is Christine, child of 
Marie. Marie was child ; and I — I — am 
Pauline, child of Victor and Rachel St. Clair — 
all born in lawful wedlock !” 

The judge waved his hand, and Alexander 
Compton sank back into his seat ; and, for the 
time, both he and Caspar seemed dazed and over- 


Endoras Story. 


263 


whelmed by the utter wreck and ruin of their 
crime-reared hopes. 

And then, Albert Lefevre, the white-haired 
lawyer of New Orleans, arose and told how he 
had had charge of Rachel St. Clair’s southern 
property for over twenty years, and how his 
father, Hubert Lefevre, had been Rachel’s orig- 
inal attorney, as well as the attorney of her hus- 
band, and had, full seventy years before, drawn 
up the will, an attested copy of which now lay 
upon the table before him. 

And then Lefevre produced a voluminous 
packet of papers, each bearing the official seal of 
authenticity, and proceeded, in detail, to estab- 
lish the truth of the statements Pauline had 
made. 

After a time Caspar started up. He had been 
struggling hard, and was evidently in great dis- 
tress. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, in an unnatural tone, 
“we must go and consult our lawyer. Mr. 
Compton knows not how to act.” 

And Caspar and his father hastily left the room 
— and left the house. 

“You are aware, gentlemen,” said Lefevre 


264 


Eyidoras Story, 


after the twain had gone, that those two are 
father and son ? The younger is truly Caspar 
Compton. What crimes they have committed 
in pushing this work you can judge as well as I. 
That Caspar destroyed Rachel’s will I am 
assured. Touching the death of Halford, and 
the disappearance of the two witnesses, I have 
strong misgivings, especially since we know of 
the forcible abduction of this young lady.” 

“ Ah !” said the judge, “ we ought not to have 
suffered them to depart. I will have them 
arrested this very night ! And now,” he added, 
turning to the administrator, I think we shall 
have no difficulty, at the next session of our 
court, in settling the Brpokside estate.” 

“ I think, your honor,” returned the adminis- 
trator, “ that f will put Madame Pauline in pos- 
session at once, subject, of course, to future 
approval of the court.” 

“ No,” said Pauline. “ I know that it was my 
mother’s will that Christine should be the sole 
possessor. I shall be content if I can see that 
will executed.” 

“As the matter now stands,” remarked the 
judge, with moistened eyes, “ we must put you 



“saved! saved!”— Page 269 





Endoras Story. 


265 


in possession as the direct and legitimate heir. 
If you choose to transfer the estate to your grand- 
child, you have the right.’' 

“ Then, my darling !” cried Pauline, clasping 
Christine to her bosom, “ all, all is yours ; and, 
as I promised you, the brighter days have 
begun !” 

Later in the evening, after congratulations had 
become stale, and legal documents had been 
examined and proved, and many explanations 
had been made, and many stories told, Christine 
drew her grandmother aside, and said to her : 

“ Oh, my mother — for you will be my mother 
now — the brighter days cannot begin until I find 
Paul! He is suffering, and in danger. Will you 
not help me?” 

“ Y es, darling. I should love the lad for the 
name he bears. I will help you; and I think I 
know where we may look for him.” 

“ Then let us set forth at once. Oh, Paul 1 
Paul ! I can help him now !” 

* * ^:* * * * * 

On this evening, two officers with a warrant 
made search for Alexander Compton and Cas- 


266 


Endoras Story, 


par Compton, the latter more commonly known 
in Boston as Caspar Hugo. But the two men 
were not to be found. They were not at their 
chambers, though they had been there and 
taken away their light valuables. 

And we may here remark that the two Comp- 
tons were not found at all. They were tracked 
to New York, and thence to Buffalo, and thence 
to St. Louis, and thence over the plains toward 
the Osage country, where trace of them was 
lost. 

* * * * -X- * * 

And on that same evening, two females, with 
two policemen in company, were searching up 
and down the highways and the by-ways of the 
city for one who was lost ; and at a late hour, far, 
far into the night, they came out from an upper 
chamber, where a man in a linen blouse tended 
bar, and where cards were scattered upon a 
table and upon the floor, and as they gained the 
street, the younger female cried out, in wailing 
agony : 

“ Oh, Paul ! Paul ! God help me now!” 


Endoras Story. 


267 


The evening- that covered with its shadows 
the flight of Alexander and Caspar Compton, 
and which closed the day of Pauline’s strange 
developments and triumph, was the self-same 
evening upon which the three seemingly ill- 
mated companions rode in the street-car; the 
same evening on which Paul Way brook and 
Dick Hammat went up into the gaming-chamber 
where the bartender in his linen blouse gave 
them brandy, and where they met Major John 
Harvey, of the Topographical Engineers ; and 
where, also, the slouchy and ragged tramp stag- 
gered in and was suffered to remain. 

Paul was more than beside himself with liquor 
and was despoiled of his last dollar by the three 
sharpers. On realizing the fact that he was beg- 
gared, Paul hurried from the place. Ruin, utter 
and black, was upon him, and only shame and 
degradation were before him. Love, honor, 
hope— all, all gone ! 

The clock of a neighboring church struck one. 
He heard it, and he wondered what it meant. 
His watch was in his pocket, and not yet run 
down. He stood beneath a gas-jet and looked 
at it. It was one o’clock — an hour past mid- 


268 


Endoras Story, 


night! For a time he leaned against a lamp-post 
with both his hands pressed upon his fevered 
brow, and then he started up, clasped his hands 
upon his bosom, and groaned : 

“ This is the end !” 

The words burst from him as though ground 
out by a great agony ; and when they had been 
spoken, he dropped his hands by his side, and 
walked rapidly away until he had got clear of 
that street, after which his pace was slackened. 
Still he moved steadily on, and his course was 
toward the water. At length he reached a 
wharf, drear and deserted. Upon one hand lay a 
few small vessels, but upon the other a pier 
extended out into the sea, to which no vessel 
was moored. To the far end of this pier he 
went, and gazed down into the dark flood. How 
solemn — how awful, in its mysterious stillness ! 
Here was rest — here oblivion — here a cooling 
stream for all earthly fever. He looked into the 
inky, sullen depth a long, long time, and then a 
deep, smothered groan escaped him ; down upon 
his knees he sank, and pressed his brow upon the 
cold iron of the anchor. And thus he prayed.' 
He arose, and looked up at the stars. 


Endoras Story. 


269 


“ I wonder,” he murmured aloud, “ will I ever 
meet Christine there ?” And with the thought, 
a sublime radiance rested down upon his face. 
The light that shone upon his countenance did 
not seem to come from within, but from without 
and above, as though an angel had touched him 
with its wings. He had bowed his head once 
for all upon his clasped hands, when he felt a 
touch upon his shoulder ; first a light touch 
which he shrank from, and then a fervid, convul- 
sive grasp, and the angelic notes came to his 
ears, and to his sense : 

“Paul! Paul! Oh, my own! My own for- 
ever! Paul! Paul!” 

He turned, and by the dim starlight he saw an 
angel form, and an angel looked upon him — an 
angel of love and of mercy. He saw other forms 

a form as of another female, and the forms of 

men — but he had only sense to pronounce the 
name : “ Christine T and to feel a pair of warm 

arms encircling his neck, and the same sweet 
voice sounded anew : 

“Saved! Saved! Oh, God! help him and 
bless !” 

******* 


Eiidoras Story. 


270 

Paul awoke from a deep sleep, and looked up 
into the face of Christine — a face as of one glori- 
fied. 

“ Paul ! Do you know me ?’' 

Christine !” 

“ Oh ! Saved ! Saved !” 

And she raised his head to her bosom, and 
kissed his fevered cheek. 

His senses very soon returned to him, and with 
them came the memory of the great ruin. 

“ Alas ! poor Christine ! I am no more worthy ! 
You know not what I have suffered ; you know 
not what I have lost !” 

I know all, dear Paul. It is you who do not 
know. I, too, have suffered. We have been the 
victims of a wicked conspiracy. But God has 
been merciful and just. You are at the Brook- 
side, Paul, and the Brookside is mine. I can tell 
you now how much I love you. Will you not 
trust me, and give me still your true and noble 
heart ?” 

Paul sobbed his answer in penitential tears 
upon the bosom of his beloved — tears hallowed 
and sanctified in that they were the outpouring 
of a soul rising to redemption. 


Endoras Story. 


271 


By and by, Dr. Arkwright came : but he came 
rather as a friend than as a physician ; for PauFs 
youthful health and vigor very soon asserted 
sway over a system that had never been poisoned 
at its fountain. 

And other friends came. Mr. Lefevre, and the 
administrator, and the judge — they came to 
share Paul's friendship, and to give him strength. 
And Zenas Leffington came — came to declare that 
he had known of no evil in the case he had sought 
to uphold, and to claim pardon and good-will. 

And in time Nathan Waybrook, grown won- 
drously old in a brief space, came and asked that ; 
the past might be all forgotten, and that he might 
be a father still. 

And later, when the old wounds were healed, 
Nathan Way brook accompanied Christine to the 
altar, and Pauline, happier far than she had been 
for long and weary years, led Paul by the 
maiden's side. And there the solemn service 
was performed, which placed a seal upon the 
new and hopeful life. 

And when the union had been consummated, 
and Pauline was fully assured that old evils had 
been put away forever, she did the crowning 


272 


Endoras Story. 


deed — she gave to Christine and Paul the estate 
which her mother had left. But she did not thus 
give away her home. No, no ; she won a home 
brighter and happier than she had ever known, 
for she lived in the luxury of love and filial adora- 
tion from those whom she had helped to save and 
to bless. 

Happy Christine ! Happy in the love of a 
husband whose heart is all her own, and in whose 
truth and honor she can confide with never the 
slightest shadow of a doubt ; happy in the sun- 
shine of a friendship that is growing broader and 
broader ; and above all, happy in the thrice 
blessed ability to carry joy and comfort into the 
hearts and the homes of the poor and needy 
who surround her on every hand. 


THE END. 


Merchant’s Gargling Oil. 



PI I DEC rheumatism, 

uUnLO NEURALGIA, 

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Chapped Hands, Flesh Wounds, 
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Cramps or Spasms of Stomach, Colic, 
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Sitfast, Ringbone, Spavins. 

Poll Evil. Garget in Cows, Sweeney, 
Scratches or Grease, Stringhalt, 

Foot Rot in Sheep, Windgalls, 

Roup in Poultry, Fistula, 

Game Back, Foundered Feet, 

Cracked Heels, Mange in Dogs, etc. 
Manufactured at Gockport, N. Y., by 
MERCHANT’S GARGLING OIL CO. 

JOHN HODGE. Seo’y. 



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